The Secrets of a Dubois
by TennisQueen12
Summary: Just how dangerous could a seamstress from Paris be?  Apparently, to a certain English professor, very.  The story of how Rebecca Dubois became a pawn in the Game of Shadows.  Movie verse w/ references to books. Eventually, Watson/OC and slight AU. ON HIATUS FOR NOW
1. A Foggy Day in London

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything belonging to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Warner Bros.**

Chapter One: A Foggy Day in London

A single black train plowed through the dense layer of fog hanging over the countryside just hours outside of the London metropolis. Not a soul was out for it was very early in the morning, everyone who was within distance of the train would have been tucked away in their country home, comfortably sleeping. Hills upon hills rolled off into the distance, should anyone have been awake to venture into such hills, he would have been lost in the thick layers of moisture looming over his path.

Amongst the sparse passengers on the train, only two were awake at such an hour. One appeared to be a young businessman, whose latest project seemed to be perching itself soundly atop of his shoulders, weighing down his whole aura. The papers pushing out of the brief case at his feet hinted at a very bulky task waiting ahead of him in London, where the business would prove to be no better than it had been in France. He sat alone in his compartment, with only the smoke from his pipe, as he peered out the window into the foggy abyss that lay outside his window.

The other passenger awake was a woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties or perhaps even early thirties. Unlike the man, whom was burdened with a tedious work load, she appeared to be more alert or perhaps, eccentric would have been a more accurate description. One single trunk was stuffed under the pull-down bed in her tight compartment in the economy class, the word _R. Dubois _sketched onto the front of her brown, bulky trunk. Had she not been so paranoid about the luggage system the train had, she would have rid herself of the burden, but it was not worth the extra hassle.

In front of the woman, sitting upon her lap, was a pad of paper, or a sketchbook rather. The pen in her hand nearly flew all over the parcel as she sketched a woman's shirtwaist, careful with the layers and shadows, for she could not afford to break another one of the prized pens that her father had gifted her. Tucked inside her bags, were many sketches similar to the one that she zealously worked on. Her attention, for the time being, was set solely upon her work and nothing more.

It was not long before a yawn escaped her lips and she found that her hand could no longer hold even the miniscule weight of the pen. Reluctantly, she shut the pen and tucked it away into her luggage before changing from her maroon dress into a much more casual dressing gown. Not that she would be wearing it for long, since she assumed that the train would be arriving to a foggy London morning within only a couple hours.

Though she appeared to be young, she had much experience in the world of business for she had been determined to run her own dress shop since the ripe age of five, when she would run around her home, changing outfits nearly every hour upon the hour. Her mother hardly minded the child playing "dress-up", but when she began to grow older the cleaning of the clothing became more expensive; therefore, the outfit switches were very limited.

One thing that fascinated her nearly just as much as sketching the latest fashions was people. Every day, she would sit in her store (she had just been able to rent out an innovative, slightly superior space with her profits) and greet whichever clients would stop in to see her, requesting a hem be sewn or a piece be sewn or something else of the same matter.

People were what added the extra flavor to her typically lackluster day-to-day life. Not to say that she didn't enjoy her job, because she did, but it, like anything else, became mundane after awhile. Her schedule was rather predictable and even the sewing could be humdrum to certain extent, nearly all patterns were repetitions of the other; however, human beings were not. Plenty could be told of a person by the way the dress or perhaps the type of clothing that they request to be made. Though she had only been a seamstress with an official business for a little over six years, she had been able to pick up on patterns amongst women rather quickly.

Nearly an entire theory in itself could have been developed over the complications with women and their fashion and this particular seamstress could have written a novel's worth of those details, but there was something much more important, or interesting rather, that had happened to this woman during her life in Paris.

Though she would not have been proud to admit such a thing, she had been married once, while she lived in Paris, where her store was located. Typically, she found most men to be dull and rather bland as far as keeping a riveting conversation went. However, Adrien Dubois had been different altogether.

He was nearly everything that she was looking for in a partner. From the moment that the tall, slender, dark haired, yet bright eyed man entered into her store, asking if she had any knowledge of a tailor in town, she knew that he was unique. From simply a trivial conversation she could already tell that he was someone who was intelligent and interesting. After a conversation or two more, she could add the words comforting, and of course, handsome (and to her, this trait came after the emotional relationship was secure) to the list. There was hardly any other way to describe the relationship with the French man other than: _gen parfait**. _

She fell so quickly under love's spell and after knowing the man for only five months, she agreed to give her hand in marriage. All was well, until the darkness of reality came to hit immediately after the 'honeymoon' stage was over. This man, whom she had held in such high standards, crushed each and every one of her plans for the future. In reflection, she would have said that five months was foolish to make such a grand decision, but in the moment, it had been very right. No other man had left such an impact on her heart as he had. The news of his true persona was devastating and after only a year of marriage, they ended it.

From the exterior, no one would see a flaw in this seamstress, who's name was Rebecca Dubois (she had kept his last name, for her business had begun to peak in that year they were together and it would have been confusing to her clients for a name change). Not very often was it that she would share this tidbit of information with anyone, in fact, there was a single person with whom she had shared this information. It was that very person whom she was going to visit, who had written her days before, asking her to come and visit to not only revisit the memories of the past, but also catch up on the others future.

This friend of hers was Mary Morstan, someone whom she had been close with for several years. Therefore, when the opportunity arose for Rebecca to take a short break from her business to come see Miss Morstan for a week or so, she hardly hesitated. Mary had acted as a confidant for Rebecca as she suffered through the heartache of essentially losing a loved one without actually physically losing them, but emotionally rather. They exchanged many letters and Rebecca had saved nearly all of the letters that she had received. The trip to London was going to be nice in order for her to reminisce with her old friend.

Sleep, as she suspected, came and was only nice while it lasted, which was only a short while. All too soon, she was awakened by an abrupt halt of the train. Initially, she had intended to wake up well before the train docked at London in order to change and get dressed for the day, but that was before she had been sparked with inspiration so late at night to draw another latest trend and chose to stay up so late.

Quickly, she changed into more suitable attire, a green dress that she herself had sewn. The forest green was by far one of her favorite colors to work with. Her pale skin contrasted nicely with the shade of green; however, she had little time to check her appearance much for there was only a certain amount of time that the train would stay at the depot.

With her dark brown hair strewn about, and boots scrappily tied (nearly falling off her feet), she gathered any of her stray belongings and left the compartment. She had booked a room at the Claridge's in London town and was en route to the hotel as soon as she could find the exit to the depot. It had been many years since she had last been to London and Mary had been helpful in recommending accommodations for the trip. In fact, she was to meet Mary in the hotel's restaurant for tea at eleven, which was five hours away.

Stifling a yawn, Rebecca pushed through other passengers gathered along in the tiny hallway of the train before finally being exposed to fresh air once again. Inhaling deeply, she stepped foot on the sully ground of the train depot. Looking around, she noticed that it was, indeed still gray in London, just as she remembered it with a thick fog hanging above.

"Ah, London," She muttered to herself, pausing to take in the scene. "You haven't changed a bit, I see."

It was common knowledge that London could very well be foggy any day of the year, but she had rather hoped that the end of spring would bring a sunny day. It was for this reason that Rebecca preferred Paris, nevertheless, it was pleasant, in a way, to be back in her hometown.

Keeping a tight hold on her trunk, she continued through the crowd exiting the train depot. Upon exiting, she could see the dirty street corner and hustle and bustle of the city unfold before her eyes. Just as she arrived at the street corner to call for a carriage, she felt a tap on her shoulder and jumped nearly to the sky, ready to attack.

"Ma'am, it appears that you dropped this," A man with a rather nice suit on approached her, and in his hands what appeared to be her sketchpad, and a smile on his lips.

Quickly, replaying the events in her head, she knew that she had securely tucked the pad into her bag. It was impossible, or improbable rather, that she could have dropped such a prized possession.

She scrutinized him for a long, hard moment before smiling, playing along with this little show that he was putting on and grabbing the notebook from his hands. With a hint of sarcasm, she replied," Why, what a gentleman. Thank you, sir."

The man returned with an even wider smile before nodding cordially to her and walking away without another word. Rebecca stood there, watching the man closely as he disappeared around the corner.

"Now, let's see if you actually did return my belonging," She mumbled, once again to herself as many civilians passed by.

Carefully, she turned the front flap of the sketch pad, identical to the one that she owned, and found a blank page. A smile (not in humor) came to her lips as she flipped another page and another, only to find all of them empty as the first one had been. Her sketchpad had been full of her work that she had been working on since the year before.

Biting down on her lip, she released a dry laugh before tossing the notepad to the ground as she wondered the reasoning behind the man's actions.

"London," She said dryly, under her breath. "It has been far too long."

**Author's Note: Okay, so here I am in the realm of Sherlock Holmes. I've always loved the short stories and the movies! I do not know how much I will write of this story because I am currently writing a Harry Potter story (which is my priority), but if this is more popular then perhaps I will change that. With that being said, please let me know what you think of this! I would love to hear opinions :D**

****_gen parfait_= perfect **

**A rough translation :)  
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	2. A Cup of Tea at Midday

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

**ALSO, please keep in mind that this story will take place somewhere between the two movies, if you're looking for a timeline, but this is also a loose interpretation.**

Chapter Two: A Cup of Tea at Midday

A block or two down, Rebecca had taken a step out to the street and finally been able to hitch a cab. She found it odd, there had been so little passengers on her train and yet so many people crowded the depot. It only proved that the train depot simply needed to be reorganized (since, six o' clock in the morning was surely not the peak time for people to be out and about), but she did not dwell on this thought for long, but merely kept on her way, excited to see her old companion once more.

Upon entering the cab (and after refusing the driver's offer to stow away her luggage), she asked the driver," Do you have the time, sir?"

"Nearly seven, ma'am," He responded gruffly before climbing back into the front of the cab.

"Strange, is it for so many people to be out?" She asked, not really as a question to the driver, but rather a thought that strayed out of her mouth.

He let out a grunt before pulling out his pipe that sat in his coat pocket," After living in this city for all my life, with all due respect, nothing surprises me."

She found this answer to be rather indirect and slightly unhelpful, but what more could she expect? He did not seem like the type to strike up a conversation (nor carry on one for that matter); therefore, she dropped the topic entirely and busied her mind with another topic.

Immediately, she thought back to the scraggly man that had offered her a sketchpad outside of the train depot. Working with clothing taught her many things about people and what they wear tends to reflect their personality. This man, though he seemed shady, was dressed the opposite. A quick visual search showed that he was wearing a rather expensive suit meaning that he had to have either been in a successful career at the present or he had been in the past.

The same search noticed that the seam on the side of the trousers, near the bottom, was splitting (and his trousers were a ¼ of an inch too short, but she would take that into much consideration). This small observation allowed her to rule out the possibility that he was currently in a successful job. Any man with money would see even such a minor detail and make an effort to take it to the tailor.

A strange scent also hung about the man, but she didn't have near as much an interest in this. Typically, people dressed a certain way to display their rank in the social class or…they dressed the way they wished to be perceived in the social class. For some reason, this man seemed to want to look appealing. His actions were the opposite. Perhaps, she was acting far too much like a detective, but this was not her intention at all.

In fact, all she cared about was clothing. The details that people wore on their clothing were just an evident fact that she took into consideration.

Out of pure paranoia, she grabbed the trunk from where her feet rested upon it. Instantly, she threw it open, hardly caring which of her belongings fell out. Rather, she was set on finding her sketchbook. She remembered exactly where she put it, at the bottom of her trunk, underneath nearly everything. Without completely destroying her organized stacks of clothing, she ran her fingers to the bottom of the trunk to find nothing but garments.

Her heartbeat sped up. That sketchpad was one of the single more valuable projects that she had ever worked on. She continued to tear through nearly every article she had packed, searching every nook and cranny that could possibly be in that trunk. Finally, after several minutes of frenzied searching, she collapsed against the back of the coach.

How was this possible? She had not been so careless to let anyone just peruse through her belongings.

She took several deep breaths in and out before noticing a note laying in between two of her dresses that she had packed. Furrowing her brow (for she had not remembered ever seeing such a note), she calmed herself and bent down to grab the note. With shaking hands, she unfolded the note:

_A simple task was asked of you and you have failed to complete it thus far. This is your second chance._

After staring at the note for several long moments, she found herself to be more confused than before. Had she known what this note was referring to, then she would have felt much more enlightened as to what she was suppose to do, but there was nothing that came to mind. Fear was not her first instinct rather than anger. More simply put, she was infuriated.

"Ma'am, the Claridge. Here ye are," The man called back as the carriage began to slow.

Instantly, she sloppily tossed all of her belongings back into her bag before closing it tight. Looking down at the note one last time, she shook her head and tore it down the middle. She crumpled it into the palm of her hand before the carriage came to a complete, bumpy stop. The horses let out a final whinny before the driver climbed down from his perch to come and open the door for her.

A soft breeze had picked up and the streets in front of the hotel were nearly abandoned. She nodded cordially to the driver before quickly retrieving a tip for him from her bag. To her dismay, the same hand contained the crumpled note. The breeze that had picked up was just strong enough to pull the note from her grasp. Already, the man had turned and was re-entering his carriage.

At first, she went to retrieve the note, but after a moment or two, she knew that her chances at retrieving the note ever again were slim to none. It was not as if the note was of utmost importance to anyone. Naturally, it had given her a bit of a scare, but she was certainly not going to let some little freakish event prevent her from enjoying her social visit.

Without a second glance, she entered into the hotel, eager to check in and settle in. Little did she know, that out in the early morning air, the lonely street had two men standing by nearly a block from the hotel. She may not have been able to retrieve the note, but the breeze had ceased and blown the note into a thick, repulsive puddle of mud on the side of the road.

Careful not to be splashed by an passing carriages, the same man who had offered the sketchpad to Rebecca stepped out of the alley and peered down at the note. He bent down and pulled the piece of partridge from the mud before shaking it out in the air. His companion came up behind him as he stayed crouched. His companion coughed into his sleeve before asking," What'dya think 'bout her?"

The man looked down at the note, shook his head, as if in pity before saying to his companion," I think she's much too prideful. It might just be her downfall."

"Seems a little too early to be saying something like that," His companion said, standing beside his friend, chuckling slightly.

The man stood up and tore the note down the middle, with a straight face, he told his companion," Then again, it's not really up to us, is it? We'd best go and tell him what she's done."

"This should be fun," The companion said, still trying to lighten the mood before coughing into his sleeve again.

The other man did not find him near as amusing as he found himself, but asked him one simple question as they marched down the street," Do you have the sketchpad?"

Instantly, the companion pulled the dark blue bound sketchpad from inside his coat and said with a smirk," Right here."

"Very good," The man answered coolly before they turned the corner and disappeared from the street block.

* * *

><p>It was nearly eleven o' clock when Rebecca sat in the restaurant of the hotel, after being able to settle down to her room for an hour or two before migrating to the tea room. As expected, there were some nerves as she awaited the arrival of her friend, whom she had only communicated with through letter over the last couple of weeks. Her eyes were nearly glued to the clock before finally at nearly five minutes after, she saw who she simply knew had to be Mary Morstan clad in a canary yellow dress with matching hat.<p>

Instantly, she stood up and went to embrace her friend just before she sat at the table opposite herself.

"Rebecca, I am so glad to see you!" Mary exclaimed as she hugged Rebecca.

Mary hadn't changed much at all. She was still the beautiful lady that she remembered her to be with fair skin and light blond, not to mention her blue eyes that always seemed to glow. It was so…surreal that she was actually seeing her again. She had accepted the fact long ago that she would probably never meet face-to-face with her and yet there she was, standing in front of her.

Rebecca smiled, hardly able to contain her excitement as they broke apart," And I you! I can't believe this! You look spectacular!"

"As do you!" Her friend answered, smiling just the same as Rebecca stepped back to her side of the tea table set for the two of them. "I thought I would never see you again. I'm so glad that you found time to come down. Trips like this can't be healthy for business up there, so really thank you for taking the time off to come."

Rebecca knew that she was referring to her seamstress shop up in Paris. She had written to her all about the details of her job. The truth of the matter was that Rebecca had hardly thought of how much business would be affected; she was as successful as she needed to be since she was only caring for herself.

The both of them sat down as Rebecca answered nonchalantly," It really was not a problem, Mary. I needed the break and it's not as though I am in it for the money. Plus, I have been working quite a bit as of late and a break may actually benefit the business in the long run."

Mary smiled at this as the waiter came to pour the both of them tea before setting a tray of fruit on the table," So, you've told me a little about what you do, but the stories are always better in person. Tell me a little bit about it."

And so, Rebecca recalled all of the most recent events that had happened at the store and the current "projects" that she had been working on. She had to agree with Mary that stories always sounded much better in person and, in fact, there were plenty of details that Rebecca had not been able to put into the letter such as the laughable noise that the same abhorrent man made every time he came in to check on his wife's formal gown only to find that it was not done. The seamstress added that she had told the man day after day that the gown would not be done for quite some time, but he obviously had not understood the message.

Many laughs were shared as Rebecca delved into the most interesting of her clients, many stories later, she commented on the situation, conclusively stating," I suppose that not much can be expected when dealing with the public on a daily basis; however. Anyways, enough of me, I'm dying to know what you've been up to after all of these years."

Mary smiled, took a sip of her tea before letting out a sigh that seemed to be overwhelming," Well, I have been a governess, actually. I'm sure that I have mentioned that in the letters, but that in itself has been overpowering."

"How old is the child again?" Rebecca asked, nodding her head.

"He's seven and he's an absolute handful. If anything, my years watching him have been a learning experience," Mary said, obviously showing restraint in how she truly felt.

"You're being modest, Mary. Please, tell me more about this child. If anything it will simply further inspire me to abstain from ever having children," Rebecca said, insisting that she continue.

She chuckled at her friend's last comment before shaking her head and finally saying," I do not even know the proper wording for him. He is so…intelligent-"

"That doesn't sound-" Rebecca started to cut in, but she interrupted, or continued her though rather.

"Oh, but I haven't finished," She said with a small, sarcastic smile. "He's too intelligent for his own good. In fact, I would go so far as to call him-"

"An insufferable know-it-all?" The seamstress asked, smirking at her as Mary nearly burst into laughter once again.

"I really shouldn't laugh…but he is-"

"It is completely alright to agree," Rebecca commented, stifling laughter while dumping a chunk of sugar into the delicate tea cup sitting in front of her.

Mary shook her head, fighting the harsh words before looking straight into her friend's brown eyes," You really haven't changed a bit, Rebecca. Still that free spirit that I remember."

Rebecca shook her head before saying," Free spirit? How I wish I could be completely free. To be fair, you haven't changed at all. Still the simple, modest Mary that I remember."

"Strange that we became friends at such a young age? We seem to be a foil of each other, even today," She said simply, shaking her head.

"They say that everyone is attracted to what they do not have themselves. It should not be of too much of a surprise," Rebecca added, sipping her tea that was nearly gone.

Mary raised a brow before concurring," You most definitely have a point, my friend."

And although they had only been in each other's company for a matter of minutes, conversation began flowing so freely that it was as if neither had ever been separated from the other. It was as if Rebecca was still living next door to Mary and they were still the same little girls they had been growing up.

**Author's Note: Merry Christmas! **

**Thanks to MisticLight and Carlypso for reviewing! I would love to hear some more opinions; it will help me decide whether I want to pursue this story or not haha. **


	3. An Unexpected Announcment

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything Sherlock Holmes.**

Chapter Three: The Unexpected Announcement

Conversations passed along and before either of them knew it, the time was well after one o' clock. Nearly all of the original patrons who had joined them for lunch had left the building and they were now sitting amongst a new group.

"How long are you in town for, Rebecca?" Mary asked, gathering her belongings in her handbag.

"Well, I originally intended for being around for the week, but it appears as though I will have three nights before they give my room to someone else. London must have some sort of large event its hosting," Rebecca answered with a hint of curiosity to her voice.

"Ah, probably one of the summits at the University or a business meeting of some sort. I have heard no announcement of a major event that is out-of-the-ordinary," Mary replied, sounding slightly taken by surprise at this. "You really should have just stayed with me!"

Rebecca shook her head," Mary, I wouldn't want to put you out. On top of that, I like being back in the London public. It is…_bouffée d'air frais _or a breath of fresh air, if you please."

Mary shook her head in response, finding it useless to argue," Well, I suppose that means that you will just have to come back again."

Rebecca furrowed her brow, slightly confused at what this meant," What-"

"I invited you to come because I had an announcement, Rebecca. Some rather exciting news," She added on, only building the suspicion even more.

A silence hung in the air as Rebecca scrutinized her companions face for a long, hard moment before finally Mary said," I'm getting married, Rebecca. In the early winter and I've no idea how I'm suppose to plan it."

Rebecca tried to swallow, but it seemed to be stuck in her throat. After a moment or two, she coughed and looked at Mary with wide eyes, filled with both shock and excitement.

"But-what-who?" Rebecca spluttered, finding a new interest in this announcement.

"He's a doctor, Rebecca. Probably the best thing that's ever happened to me," She told me with a small smirk.

This news was groundbreaking for Mary because she had been engaged once before. I never liked the chap from the beginning, but was still heartbroken to find that he had died tragically. This was another reason why Mary had been such a comfort to Rebecca when she and Adrien had to break off their relationship. Both women had experienced hurt in love life and shared plenty of common ground in their grief. The fact that Mary was engaged was not only exciting for Mary, but exciting for Rebecca, as well.

Rebecca looked around the room, her jaw nearly on the floor as she tried to digest this bit of information," Mary, this is-"

"Ridiculous? Please don't say that," She told me with a sharp edge to her tone.

The seamstress looked directly at her friend and shook her head," Not at all. This is…astronomical. Amazing. I want to know all about him! Why have you not mentioned him in any of you transcripts? This seems highly unfair, Mary."

Mary chuckled as she stood up from her chair," Rebecca, I will start by telling you his name. He is Dr. John Watson. Now, I know you are a bright mind so let's see what knowing his name alone will lead you to believe about him."

"Mary, there's absolutely nothing in a name that can tell me anything of value about this man. Other than the fact he is a doctor-" Mary interrupted her.

"Would it be more helpful if I gave you a sample of the clothing he wears?" She teased before perching her handbag on her forearm.

Sarcastically, Rebecca chuckled at this before leaning forward," Please, don't tell me you're going to leave me here, dying of curiosity."

"Of course not, I've got an appointment at two that I can't afford to miss. Tomorrow, please drop by and see me. Anytime works, but preferably after tea would be best. Tomorrow, I will answer any question that you wish for me to answer about the details that you desire," And with that she nodded to her friend cordially and exited the restaurant with one last. "Goodbye!"

Just after she left, Rebecca was still in complete shock. It was at that moment that she felt very stupid. Mary had been wearing her engagement ring the entire time. Instantly, she let out a groan before dropping her head onto the table.

Arriving back at the hotel room provided Rebecca with some much needed time to simply relax. Immediately, she slid off the shoes she had been wearing before falling onto the bed. Looking around, she noticed her trunk at the end of the bed and remembered once again of how her sketchpad had been stolen, presumably by someone at the train depot. It was not unlikely for a crime to occur in London, but for something so specific to be taken and nothing more…Rebecca found it to be odd. Very odd.

_Perhaps_, she thought to herself, _This could be an actual vacation from all things sewing. What if I treated this as if it were just a break altogether_?

She allowed herself to push this from her head and eventually ventured into sleep. Hours later, she found herself waking up with wanting nothing more than to sketch. She knew that at that moment she was not going to be able to take a break altogether from sewing. Looking outside, she noticed that she had allowed herself to sleep for quite some time because evening had already snuck upon the city.

Knowing it would not be entirely safe to travel alone in the city, she debated whether or not to go for several moments. Finally, she decided that she would go out on a limb, but not without some sort of protection. She checked her trunk to grab the small, compact dagger laying at the bottom. Thankfully, the thieves had not touched this. Carefully, she sat down and slid the dagger into the traveling coat that she intended on wearing for it was common knowledge that night time brought about cooler temperatures. Since the day had been comfortable, she assumed that the night would be slightly uncomfortable.

In addition to this, she grabbed the pouch from her trunk and the money that she had brought along with her. She slid the pouch around her neck and carefully tucked it out of sight into her dress. Then, she put the jacket over her shoulders and slid her arms into each sleeve before exiting the room, careful to lock it behind her.

The seamstress had very little knowledge of London's businesses; therefore, before she left she stopped by to ask one of the workers where the nearest textile store would be. It was at this moment that she wished she would have kept the blank sketchpad that the man had given her on the street corner.

"Could you inform me of the nearest textile store?" She asked to one of the men coming down the stairs alongside me.

She noticed that this man seemed to be slightly aloof for at the sound of voice, he seemingly jumped to the ceiling," Um-"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," Rebecca said, smiling to try and provide some sort of comfort.

He ran his fingers through his hair before saying," Oh, um, well…Peter's Fabric Supply is on the other side of town. I'm sure that you could find anything you need there."

Rebecca smiled and thanked the man, despite his eccentric aura about him. She trusted he was reliable since he was wearing a hotel uniform. Little did Rebecca know, that this man wasn't a hotel worker at all. In fact, he had only changed into the uniform minutes before she left her room.

**A/N: I should be posting the next chapter shortly, hopefully you all are enjoying the story so far. Thanks to the reviewers from last chapter I appreciate it so much! Please continue to let me know what you think ****J**


	4. Hanging on by a Thread

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

Chapter Four: Hanging on By a Thread

The seamstress made her way through the lobby unaware of the many eyes set upon her in the dark corners of the room, careful hiding themselves amongst the furniture or even amongst the guests, incognito. The thought that anyone had any interest in her was not something that was necessarily on her mind. In fact, her main priority was simply getting to the fabric store and getting back without any trouble.

Successfully, she had been able to migrate from one side of the lobby to the other without any hindrance and even had been blessed to get to the street corner without a problem. The spectators had not expected there to be a problem yet…they were waiting for her to get into a certain carriage. It was when she got to the street that one of the men was to confront her.

Already, she had started to find a cab when a man, dressed very nicely and seemingly non-threatening from the exterior. However, Rebecca did see this as a warning signal. Just hours before she had been approached by a nicely dressed man and then her notepad went missing. Surely, the same was to happen this time if she was not smart.

"Ma'am, why don't you allow me to assist you? It seems to be a busy night tonight. City can be a dangerous place," The man said to her, his smile sly as he stepped in front of her and hauled a ride.

She returned the smile and appeared to be flattered at first, but then proceeded to step around the man, calling over her shoulder," Thank you, sir, but I am doing just fine on my own."

The man mentally groaned and knew that should he let her get away from this unscathed, then it would not only be the end of his career, but quite possibly his life. Immediately, he turned and swiftly grabbed her arm," But ma'am, I insist."

She struggled and snarled slightly at the man, looking him straight in the eye," But sir, I _decline_."

Rebecca saw out of the side of her eye that a carriage was pulling up to the side of the road at a rather quick pace, and stopping quite quickly. The horses whinnied and seemed rather excited. She was not able to pay much attention; however, for she saw the man reaching back to grab _something_ from his trousers. She most definitely was not going to sit around and wait for what this was and immediately shoved her hand into her pocket to draw the knife.

Just before the moment became too violent and just as she was lifting her weapon to attack, a grimy man climbed from the perch at the driver's seat and flew to the scene.

"Careful with that," He muttered to Rebecca as he stepped in between the scuffle, able to snap the connection between the seamstress and the street man. It all happened rather quickly, but before she knew it the man had taken the knife from her hand, seemingly made it disappear before he began rearing back and punching the man in the face.

Taking this by surprise (both to Rebecca and the man), Rebecca jumped back, and the man punched forward, fighting back though this mysterious hero, stealthily, had been able to jump out of the way, sending the man flying toward the street.

Immediately, the "hero" turned and grabbed Rebecca's arm, ushering her toward the carriage and as he opened the door, he said with a bow," Your ride, my lady."

Despite his rescue, she was not entirely willing to put her safety into this strange man's hands. Straight away, she resisted his grasp on her and spat back," Why should I trust-"

He appeared to be distracted once more and with little respect to her words, he literally pushed her into the carriage, shut the door as he attacked another man that had been coming up from behind her. She huffed inside the carriage, unable to believe this man's rudeness. Just as she raised herself to get out of the carriage, there was a jerk as the carriage pulled forward.

Rebecca was able to release a sigh of relief, but it was not a long lasted one. She was curious as to who the driver could be. Seconds passed and the carriage was hit with a thud, she looked up to see another man climbing atop of the carriage.

"You remember that knife that I warned you of?" The driver of the cab, whose voice she recognized to be the mysterious man that saved her, had miraculously taken his perch as the driver once more, she presumed. Due to the layout of the carriage, she could not see him, but she most definitely could hear him.

This was all moving a bit too quickly for her mind to completely comprehend, but she had remembered the knife. She had little time to react, but she yelled back to this man," You took it from me! How am I suppose to use something that I don't-" There was a thud as the man climbed to the door. "have!"

"Are you quite certain that you do not have said knife? I am almost sure that I gave it back to you," He called back to her as the carriage swerved drastically, causing the man on the door to nearly lose his balance.

She rolled her eyes, finding this conversation highly unnecessary at this time. However, she took his unusual advice and checked the pocket on her traveling coat. Low and behold, her knife was there and she immediately flew forward to the man fiddling with the lock, leaving little time to ask questions as to how the weapon got there.

"Don't you think this is a little unnecessary?" The frantic man asked, seeing the knife drawn.

"Do not show sympathy! Think of what their intentions were to do to you!" The driver chipped in, obviously eavesdropping on the conversation.

She shook her head, looking into the pursuer's brown eyes. For a split second, she felt pity on the man, but it was at that same second that she noticed a man from the street about to fire. Without a second thought, she drove the blade into his chest, before pushing him off of the carriage.

Rebecca could hardly watch as the man choked on death; therefore, she quickly pulled the knife from his chest and wiped the blade clean on the fabric inside the carriage on the seats. Just as she plopped herself down onto the seats in the back of the carriage, the driver called back to her once more.

"Don't get too comfortable!" He said as they took a rough corner, nearly throwing her out of cab.

"Who are you?" She called, steadying herself against the side, just before hearing a gun shot and watching as the wood of the carriage nearly exploded with bullets crashing through it. Luckily, she had been intelligent enough to get down to the floorboards just before the bombard.

"I say it be best that we keep names...urm-confidential," The man hollered with a cough before turning and shooting a hand gun of his own (or so it sounded).

She furrowed her brow, finding him more eccentric by the moment. This man who had saved her life was choosing to be modest. She didn't know his name nor did she know anything about him. In fact, she had only briefly seen him and that was hardly enough to ever be able to recognize him again.

"You may want to stay down there a little while longer!" He cried again when Rebecca actually had no intention of going anywhere.

"Are they really allowed to do this? Why haven't the police gotten involved? This is mad!" She cried in return as another single gunshot (one after another) plowed through the badly beaten cab.

This resulted in a round of laughter from the man," Sweetheart, have you seen how _inept_ the police force in this town is?"

Already, she found this man to be intolerable," As a matter of fact-"

"You have no idea how inept the police force is due to the fact that you have just come into town for a short amount of time to visit your friend. You're a seamstress from Paris, a town actually worth visiting. If I'm not mistaken, the reason for this little trip tonight is in order for you to retrieve-"

Before he could say anymore and intrigue the seamstress's mind any more, a loud thud could be heard as presumably another person tried to climb onto the carriage. Suddenly, a fat fist came flying through the already weakened wood from the back of the cab. Instinctively, Rebecca grabbed the recently used dagger and prepared herself for impact. Just as she was able to stand up and face the grimy, greasy, overweight man face-to-face, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

"This is your precursor to move out of the cab," The driver of the cab (or old driver, rather it appeared that he was no longer driving) was standing beside her. It was at this moment that she was able to get a full visual of the man. He was clad in a very dilapidated hat and long, traveling coat with many holes in it. Dirt was all about his clothes and especially on his face. He also had a rather thick, scraggy beard that prevented Rebecca from seeing most of his face. He asked with a small smirk, "Why don't you let me handle this?"

"Who's driving the-" She started, but it did not take long for her to feel the carriage drifting toward the sidewalks.

Instantaneously, her eyes widened as the man smirked at her," Ah, you catch on rather quickly."

It was at that moment that they made eye contact for the first real time. Rebecca wanted to say that she had seen those dark brown eyes before, but she had little time to recollect all of the people she had met in her lifetime. She found herself carefully climbing through the same door that she had entered through and shimmied her way to the driver's seat.

Quickly, she grabbed the reigns to the horses and realized she had absolutely no idea where she was going. In the background, she could hear more punches being thrown and even the sound of a gunshot. She couldn't help but peer around nervously to see just where these gunmen were located. People on the streets were running into shelter in order to avoid the scuffle that they were causing.

Rebecca continued to guide the horses straight, the only direction she truly felt comfortable with. It wasn't until several moments later that the man came climbing back to his place at the reigns. He was breathing rather quickly and Rebecca moved to the side, scrutinizing him carefully.

It appeared as though the thick, bear-like beard on his face was peeling off. She narrowed her eyes and looked more carefully at the side of his face," Are you wearing a fake beard?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you are speaking of," The man answered coldly before taking another sharp turn into an extremely narrow alleyway. Rebecca was certain that this man was hiding something.

She started to move her hand to prove her point, but before she could even come in contact with the beard, he grabbed her wrist," Please, don't touch me."

Glaring at him slightly, she wriggled her hand free of his grasp and folded her hands in her lap. Many questions came floating to her head about this man, but one was prominent.

"Why are these men coming after me? I experienced-" She started to ask, but he merely finished her phrase.

"A man at the train depot earlier today and found later that your sketchpad was missing. Yes, I would assume that these men are working for the same man that one was working for. You should simply be glad that I followed my instinct rather than a clue that led me to Peter's Fabric Supply," The man said to me, keeping his eyes set on the road before him. All of the words he just spewed out at her, baffled her greatly. Only someone who had been there with her would have been able to retell the story in such great detail.

He was so very familiar and yet so strange, eccentric to her.

"That was my intended destination; however, it looks as though I will not be going there now," Rebecca informed him with a small sigh at the end, had she realized just how difficult this whole process was going to be then she would have simply stayed at her hotel room.

"Well, in all honestly, whether or not you receive your notebook all depends on-" He was cut off mid-sentence as he jerked the reigns to the opposite side of the empty street, into where the oncoming carriages would have been coming. I finally concluded that this man must have been mentally insane; conversely, my eyes were forced to the opposite side of the street where a troop of men were running out of a small, compact building. "Our timing…which appears to be horrendous."

Looking around, it appeared as though we were close to the river with the smell of the factories filling my nostrils.

"Come along," He said rather casually, pulling the young lady's arm after pulling the horses to a stop. He climbed down onto the muddy street before assisting her down briskly after himself.

"I demand to know what's going on!" The seamstress finally yelled at him, pulling herself free of his grasp.

As if timed, just as the two of them had been able to move into the alleyway, the building behind them (where the men had come from) burst into flames, emitting a loud, thunderous sound that could be heard for miles. Rebecca's back had been turned to the scene and slowly she turned to face the building blown into smidgens.

"That, my dear seamstress, was your Peter's Fabric Supply. I'm sorry to inform you that your trip to the store will have to be delayed to a later time," The man informed her in a rather quick and concise manner. "Now, if you will, let's move-"

"Stop, I am not going anywhere else with you until you explain all of this to me. Why are these men following me? Why did I get a note yesterday about nonsense that I have never heard of? Why are you interested enough in my safety that you are going to extreme lengths to-" She began spouting off, demanding information before this chase could continue any further.

As suspected, she knew she would not get the desired answers for halfway through her sentence, he pulled her to the ground, behind what appeared to be several crates filled with the latest shipment to Peter's…that would probably never reach their final destination. Thankfully, just after that, a gunshot could be heard as the bullet whizzed by overhead.

"Regretfully, I refuse to tell you any of this information due to the fact that giving you this information would provide you with information about myself. That, my dear seamstress, is something that I cannot afford to tell you. I feared I would have to do this," He said very swiftly with a sigh as he fiddled with his pocket. "My friend is a doctor; therefore, you can peacefully trust that what I am about to inject you with is not lethal, but a sedative rather. When you wake up, you will once again be in your snug, petty hotel room."

Through the side of her eye she could see many men rushing over the street, appearing irate as they loaded their guns, which she had noticed before were rather advanced for that day in age. This was a minor detail in comparison to the strange savior who was holding her arm in the perfect position to be injected with some equally strange concoction.

"Inject me? Are you out of your mind?" Rebecca squealed and squirmed to move out of his reach, but it was far to late. He had already met the surface of her skin and the sedative was flowing to her bloodstream as she drifted off into slumber. What he hadn't told her was that the sedative was in fact crafted by none other than he himself, the fact that he had a doctor as a companion had little to do with the development of the sedative.

Before getting up to tend to the pests, he whispered one last thing to the, now unconscious seamstress," To answer your question…the argument is a rather riveting one about the state of my mind, but the verdict is still out."

At this moment, the unidentified man, stood to his feet and dodged another bullet by one of the men. It was at this minute in time that another coach came to a stop, only on the opposite side of the alley. This coach; however, was backup for the man.

Moments later, a tall man exited the coach and quickly ambled down the dark alley way, his walking stick tapping on the cold brick sending echoes down the alley. This man picked up a gun of his own, firing it once into the air to scare the remains of the men, now in a fist fight with his colleague.

With the distraction present, the fighting man took advantage of this and finished off one of the men with a hard blow to the abdomen. There were only two fellows left, one of them being rather large. The man coming to assist his colleague entered into the skirmish immediately, firing directly at the larger of the two. The beefy fellow had not the slightest of what was coming for him and took the blow hard to the ground. At nearly the next moment, his colleague was able to take down the last of the men who did not have a gun.

With heavy breaths, the two men looked to one another before the taller of the two noticed the woman laying on the ground, cataleptic. Releasing an aggravated sigh, the man accused his partner," Holmes, what have you done now?"

Holmes, obviously oblivious to the severity in his companion's tone, said with a rather simplistic tone of voice, while ripping the fake beard from his face," I used a sedative on a particularly nosy young woman."

"First of all, which sedative did you use?" The man, who was the doctor Holmes had referred to Rebecca, asked with stern tone of voice. "And secondly, who is she?"

"Watson, I assure you that the sedative I used was a stable compound which I, myself, developed based off of the many sedatives you have gifted me with," The eccentric man said with an arrogance and perhaps a slight bit of irritation to his voice before continuing. "Secondly, this is Rebecca Dubois. Or more simply put, another pin to my, oh what's the word you described it as… _conspiracy_ web."

**Author's Note: I got really excited while writing this chapter. Originally, I was going to update my other story prior to doing this one, but I just couldn't wait. I hope you all enjoy this story! Thank you to those who have reviewed so far! Please continue to let me know what you think. ****J**


	5. A More Happy Time

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. As you very well know. **

Chapter Five: A More Happy Time

The doctor, who had very nearly decided on several occasions that he was going to either break off the companionship with Holmes or send him to a mental institution, pressed his fingers to the women's neck to check for a pulse, fearing the worst, but able to release a sigh of relief after feeling that her pulse was steady.

"You could have killed her, Holmes. Even you, _brilliant_ you, could have made an error in processing such a powerful drug that would end up being lethal for this young lady," Watson spat back at him before picking the woman up and putting her over his shoulder.

"Oh, good grief, Watson, after all we've been through couldn't you have developed some level of trust for me?" Sherlock shot back, pretending to have a sound of hurt to his voice, but Watson knew that it was only just a show. The eccentric detective pulled out his pipe from his coat pocket before proceeding to grab his lighter.

"_Trust_?" The doctor asked incredulously as they ambled toward the coach he had arrived in. He let a pause hang in the air before sarcastically replying, "Oh yes, certainly."

Holmes smirked briefly before continuing on," I presume you received my transcript."

"Apparently so, otherwise I wouldn't be here," Watson answered before pulling open the door to the carriage, careful to set the young lady down, first.

"Yes, indubitably, so you now know where it is that you need to take her? You've no further questions? Observations? Inquiries?" His colleague asked as he stood on the sidewalk, letting out a mouthful of smoke while Watson stood in the door frame of the carriage.

"I have plenty of questions; however, now would not be an appropriate time I suppose?" The doctor asked, inferring that Sherlock must have had some other important business to attend to.

Sherlock shook his head before barking at the idea," No, no certainly not. Not with the sorts of questions you ask, old boy. Good evening to you!"

It took a moment before Watson returned the gesture, he nearly shut the carriage door when he shouted after him, offended" What do you mean 'the sorts of questions I ask'? Holmes!"

The detective had not gotten very far and very quickly turned on his heel to face the doctor," They are simply so profound that it takes such a long time to explain them, you see."

Watson shook his head before smiling," Ah, yes I'm sure that's what you meant. Good-"

"Oh! I've nearly forgotten, thank you for reminding me, Watson. What would I do without you?" Sherlock came running back toward the doctor before pulling a dark blue sketchpad out of his coat and handing it to him.

Watson took the notepad, baffled as he questioned," Holmes, what is this?"

"Nothing that you or I would necessarily understand, but this young lady, Rebecca Dubois happens to be a seamstress. The whole intent of her even leaving her hotel tonight was to retrieve a new one of those. I do think; however, that she will be pleased to find the original in her possession once again. Apparently, the young lady finds joy in dabbling a pen about to make all sorts of fashions that are apparently 'all the rage'," Sherlock quickly explaining the topic as if it truly were some new foreign language.

"How did you come about this?" Watson shot back, but Sherlock had already turned his back.

"Much too profound, Watson! Much too profound!" The detective chirped as he strolled away from the doctor, a plume of smoke following him.

Watson; however, was left only shaking his head as he stepped back into the carriage, plopping himself down on the seat before ordering the driver onward. Confused, he flipped through the first couple of pages of the notepad and before his eyes was a collection of elaborate women's fashions, each of them labeled with a specific symbol at the bottom of each page. Even to a doctor, with little interest in women's clothing, found the clothing to be impressive. After several minutes, he shut the sketchpad before looking at the dark-haired women.

"What makes you so valuable?" He muttered to himself, looking closely at the girl. "Why would he go to such extremes to protect you?"

* * *

><p>When Rebecca awoke the next morning, she found that not only did she have a nasty headache, but she also had a gift sitting upon her nightstand. The events of the night before replayed in her head as she sat up and examined the book on her table. She elicited a gasp as she picked up what appeared to be her sketchpad. Quickly, she flipped through each of the pages to see that everything was in tact.<p>

She was puzzled, very puzzled, indeed at this and wondered just how this had returned to her. Instantly, she remembered the strange driver from the night before and thought that he must have had something to do with this. It was no secret from the fake beard that he was surreptitiously being a driver. Now that she was able to reflect upon the situation, the shoes he was wearing did not entirely match the rest of the outfit that he was suited in. Obviously, an attempt was made (presumably by him), to make them appear sullied and encrusted, but she could still tell that the brand was one of a rather nice London shoe company. Indisputably, the shoes were of an older collection, seen quite a lot of wear, and could have used a fine polishing; they were not the type of clothing that a driver of a coach would be wearing.

She could have furthered her analysis to the rest of the outfit, but the only knowledge she would gain from such thought-out plans was what she already knew: the man was hiding something from her. Then an idea came to her head as she moved over to her trunk, the man could re-tell the events of her day very accurately, meaning one of two things: he was present at the events or well, she was actually still developing her second theory because the first sounded so very ridiculous.

This aside, she soon discovered that it was nearly noon and that she was to meet Mary at her apartment soon.

Although leery of the coach service, she traveled to Mary's home without an issue and arrived at the smart apartment. Rebecca found it strange that Mary was not working, but after arriving and greeting her friend, she learned that Mary had been gifted some time off by her employer.

Rebecca had been careful to bring along her sketch pad with her. In fact, after she changed into the rose colored, silk dress with a smaller bustle than she was used to and a matching hat that tied under her chin. Her brown hair was gathered at the side and cascaded down her shoulder in a bundle of curls (that she assumed would not keep their volume much longer than past tea).

Primarily, Rebecca wanted to discuss the wedding with her friend and discover just what it was that needed to be done. Should all go as planned, then the events of the evening before would not be discussed.

"I haven't anything planned, other than where the wedding is to be held," Mary told me, sounding overwhelmed simply speaking of the matter.

The seamstress chuckled at this before turning to a blank page in her sketchpad. She was seated at a small dining table that Mary had set up in the apartment while Mary was anxiously pacing about the sitting room.

"Well, why don't we begin there, then?" She offered, pulling the cap off of her pen. "Where is the wedding to be held?"

"A small church in the countryside," She answered while crossing her arms over her chest. "Both John and I have agreed on it."

"You've a minister to perform the ceremony?" Rebecca asked, writing the list down on the side of the page.

"No," She answered.

"Alright, and you've a guest list started?"

"No."

"What about a group of maids, or a flower girl?"

"Rebecca, I told you. We've nothing except for the church," She told me simply before letting out a soft chuckle.

"Well, that is why I am here then, right?" She returned with a sigh and smiling up at her friend to reassure here.

* * *

><p>After several cups of tea and many hours later, the two had divided the list of "to-do's" evenly among them. Rebecca had assisted in helping her compile a list of everything included in a wedding. This was not necessarily new territory for Rebecca, considering that she had assisted many French women plan their weddings, as well.<p>

It was finalized that Rebecca was to handle everything with dresses. From Mary's gown to the flower girl's gown. She was in charge of the lot of it, while Mary was to settle out the other details such as the ladies she wished to be in her wedding, the guest list, and a local flowery that would provide the floral arrangements for the wedding.

"We shall leave it at this for now and as the date comes closer, then we will see where the other has progressed and go from there," Rebecca said, tearing another sheet from her sketchpad and tossing it in the trash. It was a rough draft of a dress for Mary. During this trip, she at least wanted to get an opinion of what she liked in a dress.

Finally, after nearly seven attempts, they were able to agree on a very, in Rebecca's opinion, classy dress that would surely leave all who saw her breathless.

"It is lovely, Rebecca," Mary gushed, gasping as she covered her mouth. "How do you draw so elaborately in such little time?"

Rebecca smirked at this, but did not look up from the long-sleeved gown, practically drawing itself on the page in front of her as she continued to add details to the "skeleton" as she described it.

"You will mail me the sketches of the maid dresses and flower girls, then I suppose?" She asked before plopping herself in a chair next to her friend.

"As soon as I finish them, yes," Rebecca answered, taking a break in the sketch to look up at Mary.

Mary clasped her hands together before saying," I don't know what I'd do without you! Thank you so much for coming!"

"Well, I hadn't originally thought I would be doing this, but I always enjoy a good challenge," She said bolstering.

The bride-to-be shook her head as if she were in some sort of a daydream and several moments later, she looked back to her companion," I still simply cannot believe how all of this has come about. It seems so very surreal. I feel as though we should still be children."

Rebecca chuckled, briefly replaying the events of the night before in her head, reminding herself that the days of childhood were long gone. Seconds later, she closed the sketchbook after finding a reasonable stopping place and said to Mary," Well, we've been speaking so much of the wedding…I believe it is time that you give me a back story. How did you meet this so-called charming doctor?"

Mary blushed slightly before replying," Well, we met in London. It was a lovely summer day and…"

She trailed off into her delightful tale of how this romance bloomed. I was very interested in her story and asked all sorts of questions that I'm sure she enjoyed answering and was the friend to Mary that she needed.

But in the back of my mind, I couldn't help but feel slightly…uneasy.

**A/N: So, I want your opinion: why do you think Sherlock is so concerned about this seamstress from Paris? What's so special about her? Any thoughts? Theories? I would love to know!**

**Thank you to those who have read so far! I hope you are still enjoying. :D  
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	6. Poppy Seeds and Fred Porlock

**Disclaimer: I own nothing by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

Chapter Six: Poppy Seeds and Fred Porlock

Unfortunate for Rebecca, she later learned from Mary that the doctor was going to be unavailable for any visits until the end of week, by which point the seamstress would have been sitting comfortably in her French home, working vigorously to finish her current projects before she could even begin to work on Mary's wedding dress.

"He's apparently been flooded with patients over the last few days," She explained to Rebecca as they sat in the den, chatting over a cup of coffee.

"Is that right?" The seamstress chided in before sitting her cup down on the end table beside them.

The fair-skinned lady nodded before saying," Like many other occupations, his seems to go in spurts. There will be weeks when he will go with seeing a very bare minimal amount of patients, when other times such as now, he will see the complete opposite."

The small chat continued for quite some time before there was a substantial break in the conversation. At which, Rebecca stood up to empty her coffee cup and also begin sketching more details upon the flower girl's dress. While she sat, sketching away, Mary had picked up a detective novel and began reading away.

It wasn't until nearly evening when Rebecca looked up, finding that it was time to expound on the events that had happened the night before. Perhaps, she would try, as easily as she could, to break it to her slowly.

Softly, she shut the sketchpad," Mary, has there been an outbreak of crime in London, as of late?"

The governess looked up from her reading before looking to the ceiling, pondering the thought," Surprisingly, no. Though I have heard of some rising tensions in other nations. Those are merely rumors though, nothing more. Why do you ask?"

In response, Rebecca raised a brow," Oh, it's nothing, I suppose. Last night, I simply witnessed-"

"Oh no. Please do not tell me you were inconvenienced," She commented, shutting her book firmly.

Rebecca looked at Mary before quickly shifting her glance away. It was at this moment that Rebecca contemplated the consequences of telling Mary _all_ of the details. She certainly did not want the governess to worry about her…after all, this whole trip was somewhat revolved around Mary, who deserved a wedding more than anyone whom she knew. If Rebecca spoke of the fistfight, explosion of the Peter's Fabric Supply, or mysterious carriage driver, then Mary would surely worry and want to put restrictions on Rebecca's travel.

She cleared her throat, trying to cover the awkward pause," Well, it is rather that I saw something strange in the paper this morning. The fabric store seemed to…explode last night. As a fellow mystery devotee, I was curious to know if you had any suspicions."

Mary studied her friend's face, obviously curious of her intentions. It did seem rather unsystematic for her to change so quickly. Nevertheless, she too was puzzled by this event," There are always some sort of dangerous happenings going on in this city, but this seems rather…haphazard. Did the article give further details about on the explosion?"

Rebecca's heart beat increased slightly as she concocted an idea," Unfortunately, no. I am sure that you will, as a commoner, be hearing more about the event as the police force probes the situation further."

"Ah yes," Mary added, nodding her head before rising from her seat. "Should you ever experience a less than safe bit of London, then it will certainly be a spectacle."

How sad it was that dear Mary would, more than likely, never understand the irony or truth in that simple statement.

* * *

><p>"So, you really must return to Paris, now?" Mary asked, a day later as Rebecca stood in the train depot, many pedestrians passing on both the left and the right as she spoke with her friend one last time.<p>

"Unfortunately so, not only have I been kicked from the hotel, but I've many projects to tend to in France. As soon as I finish them, I shall be writing to you to inform you of the progress being made on the dresses," The dark haired woman answered, keeping an eye on the train that was about to depart from the station.

The bride-to-be nodded her head, still forlorn, but understanding that business was, indeed, business. Just as the train blew its horn one more time, the seamstress embraced her friend before saying with a genuine smile," Though this trip was short, it truly was nice to see you again."

As she stepped back, Mary smirked before saying," The train ride's not as long as you thought?"

"_Oui, m'dame**_," Rebecca answered lightheartedly, returning the smile before finally turning and stepping closer to the train. "You will hear from me shortly. _Adieu!_"

Sad to see her good friend leave, Mary waved as she boarded the train and whispered under her breath," _Adieu_."

Then, with one last glance, she turned and entered the train, showed the worker her ticket before being pointed down the hall to where she was to go.

"Just down the hall, ma'am," He spoke very crisply before pointing her down the hall.

She thanked him with a cordial head nod before following his directions and strolling down the hallway, through the masses of people with a careful grip on her trunk. Moments later, she opened the door to her compartment and made herself as comfortable as could be for the next couple of hours.

The truth of the matter was that Rebecca could not help but feeling paranoid as she settled herself down into the train compartment, feeling that this sight was very familiar, sitting in a train, alone. Only days ago, she had been in the same situation, only with a much more confident aura about her. Until then, she had not had any negative encounters about traveling alone, but one trip to London just days before changed her entire opinion of this.

For safety's sake, she locked the compartment upon entering and made sure to keep her trunk within eyesight. Not only had she been wary of where she placed her trunk, but she had also been careful to keep a sharp mental note of just where each and every thing was placed.

As soon as the train departed the station, she couldn't help but chuckle to herself. It simply was a case of paranoia and nothing more. Surely, whoever had been after her in London…stayed in London. It was a lie that she was willing to settle with in order to preserve her sanity.

* * *

><p>In London; however, Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his quarters at the apartment on Baker Street. Painstakingly, Holmes was recreating the sedative that he had given to the young seamstress just days before. With a clear bottle of a peculiar liquid nearby to quench his thirst, he mixed chemical after chemical, careful to get the ratios just right. From what he had observed, the results received from Mrs. Dubois were precisely the results he had desired.<p>

"I've retrieved the poppy seeds, you requested," A very uninterested, landlady by the name of Mrs. Hudson announced with a drone to her voice.

"Set them on the table directly behind me, _nanny_," The detective spat at her, gritting his teeth at the sound of her voice.

With an aggravated sigh, the woman placed the brown sack containing the seeds on the table behind him, but not without questioning him further. The room smelled terrible, his collection of plants was expanding rapidly, and she swore to have tripped over a snake en route to see the ludicrous man.

"Any reasoning behind asking me to receive poppy seeds…in such an abundance? You eat nothing but tobacco, on a good day," She asked, clearly irritated.

Several moments passed with Holmes grumbling all sorts of oddities under his breath, before finally grabbing wildly for the syringe on the opposite side of his work table. He knocked over several other containers and specimen he had been working on, but something clearly caught his attention as he stuck the syringe into the pot of boiling concoction.

"Poppy seeds, woman!" He demanded, not taking his eyes off of the mixture.

Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, was not budging. She stood firmly behind him with her arms crossed until he answered her question. Sherlock had stuck his hand out, anticipating the seeds, but after several moments of receiving nothing, he finally turned and looked at her with wide, bloodshot eyes.

"Are you barmy?" He spat at her before turning in his chair to look at her. "Or are you simply growing senile? Fetch my poppy seeds!"

The elderly woman released a dry laugh, oh how she had endured this man for a day too long! If only he were moving out with the doctor…

"You know what I want to know, now tell me and I will 'fetch' your precious poppy seeds," She spat right back at him.

He bit down hard on his lip before saying," I've developed quite the craving for the delightful little effects, now hand them to. I've explained my reasoning."

Not taking her eyes off of him, she grabbed the brown paper bag and shoved it into his hand, deeply dissatisfied with the answer she had received," You're taking the substance the doctor warned you against. Is it the heroin again, detective? Or cocaine this time?"

Holmes completely ravaged the brown sack in order to receive the desired sample inside. As if his life depended upon it, he dumped the contents of the bag into the potion before stirring very quickly with a rod sitting nearby.

"_Mrs. Hudson_, one day these…compounds will be on the cutting edge of medicine. I am simply using them to my benefit now before the rest of the world catches on," He said to her, obviously distracted. "Perhaps, you should invest in such miracle-"

She began chuckling nearly out of control as she began walking toward the exit," You are quite the case, Mr. Holmes. One day, you are going to wake up and wish you had treated me better for it will be the day I have finally cut up your contract!"

It seemed as though Mrs. Hudson irritated Holmes nearly as much as he irritated her. Despite this, he quickly returned the world of Chemistry, a much more controlled environment in which he was in control of all variables and did not have to tamper with an outlier such as Mrs. Hudson.

"Holmes, why did you send for me to come? You know that I had to meet with Mary today-" Another voice immediately began spouting off, causing him to look up from his experiment once again.

"Ah, Watson!" The detective exclaimed, as he added one last drop to the mixture before turning his attention from it.

"_Explain_," The doctor demanded very sternly with his arms crossed as he scrutinized Holmes's face.

Sherlock was not one to care much for plans for he had a rather paroxysmal schedule himself. In his world, (at least to an outsider) it seemed as though everyone was working on his schedule rather than the typical, day-to-day schedule.

"Watson, it appears as though the little seamstress from Paris is going to be re-entering our lives once more," Holmes explained, standing up from his perch at the desk before pacing the room with his hands together behind his back.

This only resulted in a sigh from the doctor," Holmes, you never explained her significance in the first place."

"Right you are," The detective answered with a raise of his finger. "Now, allow me to briefly tell you the significance of the dark-haired, meddlesome seamstress-"

"Meddlesome? How was she-"

"Now, is _not_ the time for questions, Watson, if you wish to meet your appointment with dear Mary," Sherlock chided in quickly before continuing. "She came to London for a social visit, the specific reasoning I am unsure; however, the message I received earlier in the day warned me of her arrival."

"Message from who?" Watson asked, half interested and half annoyed by the detective.

"A letter from someone under the pseudonym Fred Porlock. Though you may not be aware of this, I found this name to be familiar and have done study after study over the handwriting found in the three letters that I have received. They are all written in such complex numerical format unlike any I have seen with the exception of one man-Professor Moriarty. I have safely deduced this 'Porlock' to be under the employment of him for no one else can produce such a theory. My methods of deciphering this letter-" He grabbed a piece of parchment from his coat and handed it to his companion. "Are…trivial compared to the actual content of the letter which led me to the train depot. In my usual disguise, I was able to watch as our 'innocent' seamstress traveled to London from Paris-"

"How do you know she is from Paris?" Watson questioned, looking at him warily.

"Trivial matters, Watson! That is only insignificant!-"

"How did you know?" Watson demanded, folding his arms over his chest. "Holmes, your theory is that the little details are the most valuable. I am not believing this 'trivial' matters."

"Another time, dear Watson, but all that matters is that well-dressed men were able to fool the simple-minded seamstress enough to be able to break in to her trunk while she spoke with their ring leader and take her beloved sketchpad. Why? You may ask…I do not know every detail and the facts I know are a bit scattered, but the key principle in all of this is that-"

The tall, light brown haired man unfolded his arms before shaking his head," Holmes, you haven't any specific details except for a letter which you have…very skillfully and very luckily deciphered. Whenever you learn the reason as to why she important-"

"Professor Moriarty has an interest in her meaning that she must be important! My suspicions were confirmed when she left her cozy little lodgings to purchase a new sketchpad. When she left, she was attacked and I had timed my arrival impeccably to protect her from the assassins. Thankfully, the message I sent to you arrived-"

"Yes, yes it arrived just in time," Watson said, uncrossing his arms to lean on his walking stick.

"I have reason to believe from further examination of these 'well-dressed men' that when this seamstress leaves to return home, she will be followed. Now, in order to protect what may be future evidence, I suggest to follow this lady with the message I have just received from the same Porlock," Sherlock explained, speaking so quickly that even Watson had a difficult time understanding him.

The doctor nodded before looking at Holmes," You've deciphered this fresh letter?"

"Well, not yet, but-"

"When you decipher the letter and we have time to speak of this in more detail, then I will return," He said, patting his good friend on the shoulder. "Goodbye for now, old boy."

Before Sherlock could argue his case any more, the doctor had already turned to leave. Rather than chase after him, spitting more details at him, Holmes noticed that his sedative was boiling more than intended. Quickly, he ran over to tend to it before speaking quietly to himself.

"The problem is, dear Watson, is that our little seamstress is already en route to Paris, as we speak…"

**A/N: I don't necessarily intend for everything to make sense in this chapter, but this was mostly suppose to be a little humor with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and a very, very brief explanation as to why Sherlock is pursuing Rebecca. This chapter is mostly setting up for the next couple of chapters so I hope you all will stick with me! Thanks! ****:D**

**Also, on a different note, Fred Porlock is an actual pseudonym that can be found in the books when Holmes and Moriarty are playing "cat and mouse". I took that directly from The Valley of Fear and am intending on putting my own twist on the name, as well.**

****_Oui, m'dame_=Yes ma'am  
><strong>


	7. Nearly Normal

**Disclaimer: As you all know, I do not own Sherlock Holmes.**

Chapter Seven: Nearly Normal

It appeared as though life in Paris was going to return to normal rather quickly. Several days after Rebecca's train had arrived in France once more, she sat in the backroom of her shop, sewing tediously on a wealthy Frenchwoman's gown for a gala event coming up. The dress itself was complete, but the details were due for a touching up. Many pricks of her hand later, she found herself finished with the gown and with bleeding finger tips.

Not paying much attention to anything other than her fingers, she walked with her head down to the stairs which led to her apartment which sat above the bakery connected to her shop. She had been close companions with the owner of the bakery and had actually bought out a portion of the establishment in order to expand her business. Quickly, she entered the common restroom shared by the bakers and herself.

After dousing her finger tips with water and exiting the room to gather a strip of spare cloth laying around her quarters. Her room was, by no means, clean, but it was…an organized mess rather. She knew where everything was, but to an outsider it would appear as if every item was randomly strewn about in no particular order.

Upon finding the material, she ripped an extra bit off and wrapped the open wounds on her fingers. After she had finished wrapping up the fingers, she exited her quarters, closing the door firmly behind her before returning to her work that sat in the backroom. To her surprise, when she re-entered her shop, there stood a man, looking at the swatches of material she had out on display.

Folding her hands behind her back, she asked," May I help you, sir?"

The hustle and bustle of work had given her little time to ponder over the events that had happened in London many days before. Though the trip had resulted in several of her current projects, she had made sure to not let the gun hunt scare her so badly that she could not continue on with everyday life. However, the sight of this man forced her to remember what had happened.

She stepped back at the sight of his face. He was a handsome man, no doubt, but his suit was made by the same tailor (more than likely) as the other men. His hair was neatly slicked back and she noticed his hand at his waist. Swallowing hard, she walked behind her desk, appearing to busy herself with something before looking back to the man.

"Yes, you can, actually," The man said, flipping through another swatch of fabrics before making eye contact with the seamstress, who had sat herself down on a stool behind the desk. "I'm in need of a tailor. You being a woman of fashion-I thought you might be able to point me to a talented one."

He turned and came closer to the seamstress who was nervously eyeing a weapon of her own tucked securely underneath her desk.

There were plenty of tailors that Rebecca knew off the top of her head and any of them would have been suitable to fix whatever needs the man had, but she had a feeling that this man was looking for something more than simply a tailor for a rip in his, freshly starched suit.

"Well, sir I suppose it depends upon your residence. I have plenty of colleagues who would be willing to fix whatever problem you've got. In fact, if it is repair-work that you need, I may even be able to assist you," She informed him, making eye contact with the blue-eyed man.

"Actually, I'm from London. I'm only in France for a short amount of time and needed a…quick fix. If you could assist, then I would be most grateful," He explained to her with a small smirk and she nodded her head, understanding his predicament.

"Certainly, all you must do is drop off the article of clothing here at the store and I will-" She tried to explain, but he cut her off.

"It's only a small rip at the bottom of these trousers, actually. Do you think you could-"

She knew what he was asking and immediately inhaled. If she could simply sew the hem and get him out of her shop, then she would be content. To answer his question, she nodded her head before saying," I will fetch my sewing supplies."

He nodded cordially to her before turning his back once again. She swiftly moved from her stool to the back room and grabbed the needle and thread she supposed she would need. In addition to this, she grabbed a small step-stool and placed it in the middle of the room. After setting the stool down, she called in to the man.

"Alright, if you would step back here, please," She called, standing with her arms crossed as she waited for the man to enter.

He came in and took a look around before placing his tattered leg upon the step-stool," Looks like you've plenty of projects in progress."

She smirked at his comment as she knelt down on the floor, grabbing the hem of his pants with her hand, examining the tear that cut nearly up to his ankle. Strange, the cut appeared to be perfect, not a natural place of wear where she had seen men's trousers wear before. Nevertheless, she began tending to the tear.

"Yes, I have plenty of women who need dresses. A wedding too, as you can see from all of the white in that corner of the room," She stated waving her hand to the area she had deemed the "Watson Corner" of the room. White fabric was mostly strewn about, but there was also some off-white needed for the flower girl and a light pink for the maids that she prayed Mary had selected.

He chuckled at this," I've heard rave reviews of your store. Even in England, they speak fondly of the seamstress from Paris."

Rebecca knew this was nearly impossible and therefore found that this man was simply trying to flatter her. Giving him the satisfaction he desired, she chuckled and acted flustered while her hands worked quickly on the tear," Have you now? I'm flattered."

"I suppose that it is only the truth," He said very smoothly.

It was just at this moment that the bells attached to the front door rung. The owner of the store bent her head back, taking a small break from the trousers, as she peered to see who had entered the store. To her relief, it was only the woman she had seen weeks before. She completed her dress just the day before and suspected the lady would be suspecting the dress.

"Mademoiselle Dubois?" The lady cried, her French accent very heavy.

"_Un instant, s'il vous plaît_!**" The occupied seamstress answered. "_Je suis avec un autre client pour le moment**._"

"_Très bien alors.**"_She answered, obviously a little impatient with the seamstress.

Immediately, Rebecca returned her attention to the tear and managed to finish it up in roughly three minutes. She quickly finished it to completion before letting out a sigh and saying," You are all done, sir. I hope that you-"

It was at this moment that she looked up to see the barrel of the man's gun in her face.

She swallowed hard and nervously looked up to the man's face. She knew something was not right with this man and yet she had been stupid enough to fall for his little ploy. She swore in French as she felt her heart beat increase and palms become sweaty. In her hand, the needle and thread she held, fell to the ground.

"Tell the woman outside that you're closed," He growled, a sudden sternness to his voice.

"She has been patiently waiting for her dress for many weeks," Rebecca answered tautly, her voice shaky. "Allow me to give it to her."

He stared at her for a long, hard moment," You may, but do not take this as an opportunity to do anything rash."

"Do you not trust me, _sir_?" She spat back at him, obviously infuriated as she stood to her feet and back-stepped to grab the navy dress she had crafted from the hanger behind her. He simply kept a close eye on her before lowering the gun.

"_Madame, je viens avec votre robe! _(Ma'am, here I come with your dress.)," Rebecca called, the dress draped over her arms as she waltzed into the main room.

The woman exclaimed in French as Rebecca laid out the gown in front of her. She then proceeded to grab Rebecca by the forearm and plant a kiss on her right and left cheek. Rebecca couldn't help but beam as the woman paid her the price for the gown.

"_Merci, merci_," The woman said one last time as she grabbed her gown.

Then, Rebecca remembered something. The man in the backroom…surely he spoke no French. It was a risk she was willing to take; if she could get this woman to report this man to the police, then perhaps this could be a predicament that she could get herself out of.

Therefore, the seamstress acted as though the next line was part of a typical farewell. She thanked the lady first, but then proceeded to tell the woman of the man in her back room and that he was threatening her life. She was to call for help as quickly as she could. The woman appeared to be baffled, but simply nodded her head and grabbed Rebecca's hand comfortingly before exiting the store.

**A/N: Thoughts? Opinions? Theories? What will happen next? **

_French Expressions_

_**Un instant, s'il vous plaît=A moment please_

_**Je suis avec un autre client pour le moment=I am with another client at the moment_

_**Très bien alors=Very well, then_


	8. An Ardent Affair

**Disclaimer: As you know, I do not own anything belonging to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

Chapter Eight: An Ardent Affair

Rebecca simply collapsed onto her stool behind the counter and eyed the weapon of her own sitting underneath the desk. It hardly required much more brainpower, but as soon as she thought to grab it, the man re-entered the room, as if waiting for the little bell to ring on the door, signaling the woman's exit.

"You know," He started, admiring his gun as he held it. "It's humorous, in a way."

Her eyes shot up to the man," What do you mean?"

"You think that you're simply brilliant, don't you?" He questioned, flashing her a charming smile, that was more sinister to her.

"Sir, I haven't any idea what you're-" She started, but he simply cut off her statement as he stepped closer to her.

"Speaking French to your client, asking her for help as if I'm so much of an idiot to not understand what it is that is going on," He chuckled, amused by himself. "You see, the lady that just came in here-"

"Was in cohorts with you, I suppose," The seamstress finished, placing the pieces together more quickly than the man had suspected she would.

He raised a brow at her," And how might you deduce such a thing?"

She returned the chuckle before continuing on to say," Well, she was a new client of mine. Now, from the moment you walked in I would have been clueless, but your words hint that you've an ulterior motive behind that woman. In reflection, I find that her words were always very gregarious, as if staged, but when I happened to see her once out on the street, she was quite the opposite. Her clothing requests also reflected that of a woman of English nature, not someone of French nature, though she herself is French and speaks it fluently. How much did you pay her?"

All of the color nearly drained from the man's face before she noticed that another man had suspiciously stepped in front of the store, turning the sign that she had placed on the door from open to closed. Moments later, he stepped inside the shop while rolling up the sleeves of his suit. Another door could be heard shutting and the seamstress watched as another man came through the backroom to her store.

"I find that to be highly unnecessary and…inappropriate," The man said silkily as he moved closer to the woman. "Let's not make this any more difficult than it need be."

"Appropriateness? If that is an argument, then I say that these men are in violation of that. This is my property and seeing as none of you are customers, you are; therefore, trespassing," She spat back at him, trying to busy herself while casually speaking to these men, who she knew to be precarious before responding with a acerbic tone. "And let's not make it more difficult. Corner the weak, unarmed seamstress in a corner and kill her quickly. Her customers will never notice she's gone."

This resulted in another hearty chuckle by the original man who smoothed his way over to grabbing her forearm before saying incredulously," Kill you? Why, we do not wish to do such a thing."

She shot her eyes back to him," You did not seem to care of that in London."

"All we need is information," He said softly, his voice sounding tighter. "Should you provide us with what we desire…then you may be allowed to go free."

Another small smile came to her lips," I suppose you wouldn't mind sharing what it is you wish to know with me."

"You haven't figured it out?" He asked, surprised.

"No," She answered, honestly, feeling his grip become tighter. "Not yet, at least."

"Well, I do not think you are being entirely honest," The man said tautly before urging her to move.

She wanted to argue this point further, but seeing as this man not only had a gun, but also three other men inside the store to assist him should she not obey, then she found that it would not be a smart idea. With a mental groan, she followed along beside the man who was smirking slightly.

"Now, in order to make this much more believable, I suggest you take my arm as we go to the restaurant," He said, just as silkily as before.

Rebecca tucked a hair behind her ear as his grip on her arm lightened and she hesitantly weaved her hand through his arm, pretending as though she was voluntarily going with this man. Fortunately, she valued her life over any sort of talk that would go around the town.

"Put this on the door," The man handed a note to his other cronies who had waltzed into the shop.

"I'll have you know that my clients will know something is array. As will the baker next door," Rebecca informed the man as they came closer to the exit.

"Oh will they? And what do you suppose they will do about it?"

The seamstress bit down on her lip, waiting several moments to respond. Apparently, the silence was enough of an answer for the man and he continued to exit to the busy streets Paris with a smirk on his face. Rebecca knew that these men were not to be trusted and their motives were not trustworthy, but at the moment she had very little choice.

* * *

><p>Mousseux Rivière was a restaurant that sat in the middle of town, just outside of the major shops. It was not more than a five minute walk from the store and Rebecca was surprised at how public this…abduction was. She did not know what the proper wording would have been to describe this man nor this situation, but it was not a typical act of crime, that was for certain.<p>

She had a feeling that as soon as they sat down inside the charming restaurant with marble floors and columns to support the cathedral ceilings, then she would meet the real controller of this operation. But then again, surely, the brain of such an operation would not place himself in such a public place such as a restaurant. One way or another, she expected for this situation to be cleared up, at least slightly.

"Have you come here before?" The escort asked her, holding the door open as they entered.

"Plenty of times," She answered simply, looking this man over for any additional information she could retrieve about this fellow.

"My colleague recommended it to me when I told him my business was in Paris," He answered, carrying on the conversation just as any man would.

"Ah, your business was in Paris," The seamstress caught hold of this lure as soon as she heard it. "And just what is your business? It seems as though your business was in London just months ago where you shot many bullets at me in a stagecoach."

Another smile came to his lips while he informed the man behind the desk of the restaurant of the last name as being under "Moran". She had known a Moran before, but that Moran had been an honorable man of the military. The man searched the list before a look of realization came to his face and he marked on the piece of parchment with the pen sitting beside him.

"_Droite de cette façon**_," The worker said professionally before leading the couple through the crowded restaurant to a back room. For a restaurant as popular as the Mousseux Rivière, Rebecca found it strange when she was led into a room, just as lovely as the others, only completely empty. The worker in the restaurant, dressed in a nice suit coat and classy shoes, pulled back two chairs, one for the seamstress and one for the man escorting her.

"_Est-ce que je peux faire pour vous_?" The man asked and the seamstress opened her mouth to question him, but the man, whose last name was Moran seemed to beat her to it.

"We are fine for the moment, but thank you anyway, Jacques," The man said with a cordial nod, obviously this worker was an acquaintance of him. Returning the gesture, the worker nodded his head and exited the empty room.

"You must have quite the connection here to be able to rent out an entire room," The seamstress commented casually trying to break the silence of the empty room.

"Well, I suppose when money is involved, then connections are made rather quickly. Especially to a business owner," The man added before moving himself closer to the table.

Rebecca raised a brow," So, you must have paid quite the lot for them to give this room to you. Which means, whatever your business is with me must be rather…crucial."

The man cleared his throat as the waiter came around with two glasses of water, setting them down on the table before turning away without another word.

He looked straight in her eyes, "I do not think it would be accurate to say that _I_ have business with you…"

"But a colleague of yours perhaps? Or someone who oversees your actions?" She instantly questioned, looking at the glass of water with hesitation before raising it to her lips.

The same smirk came to the brown-haired man's lips," You are just as he suspected you to be. Analytical. Quick-minded."

"And just what might this business be over?" She asked, ignoring his comment. "Obviously, you are not interested in my sewing; therefore, what are you interested in?"

He bit the side of cheek, restraining himself before answering," Your former husband, Adrien Dubois."

It was now the seamstress' turn to swallow hard. In a matter of seconds, the air had risen to an entire new level of discomfiture. The conversation of the many people in the neighboring rooms was pounding through the walls as Rebecca nervously looked down to her fingernails. It had been many months since she had ever even mentioned his name. She feared a day would come when his sins would be placed upon her shoulders.

"I refuse to speak of him," She said fiercely, folding her hands upon her lap.

The man whose last name was Moran looked at her, pleased with the reaction he received from this. So, she was, in deed connected to Dubois and overly defensive of him. Moran had known Rebecca at one time, but that was many years ago. He had presumed she would still be in the sewing business and low and behold, she had been. It was funny to him how she was still the same as she had been before, but it had been so many years ago when she met him that he hardly believed she would remember him. His adviser, a professor, was wary of her connection to him and hesitated in sending him to press her, but it was clear that they had, in the end, made the correct decision. He had been able to lure her into their trap just as they wished.

"May I remind you that any refusal to cooperate with my demands..." Carefully, he placed his hand inside his coat pocket and placed the gun on the table beside him," May not result…pleasantly."

For a split second, a flash of fear was in her eyes and this was all he needed to know that he was in charge of the situation. She blinked several times before sighing and saying," What is it that you wish to know?"

"I am pleased that you respect me, Madame Dubois," He told her with an aura of arrogance about him. "Can you tell me the current whereabouts of your ex-husband?"

"I have not heard from Adrien in many months," She answered simply as the waiter entered into the room with two freshly cut salads in his hands. He placed them in front of the two of them before turning away without another word.

He stared at her for a long, hard moment," Are you sure?"

How was it that this man was so very persistent with his questions of her ex-husband? Deep down, she found this fellow to be very familiar to her. Very familiar, indeed, as if he was a colleague of hers.

"Sir, I will tell you all that I know and if that does not satisfy you, then I'm afraid-" She was clearly becoming agitated and all he simply had to do was place his hand on his gun to silence her and place her back onto the right track. "I have not heard from him nor do I know his whereabouts, no."

"Good girl," He said under his breath before grabbing his fork and stabbing the piece of lettuce on top. "You have some of his possessions; however, correct?"

It was strange that he ask such a question. When they had ended the marriage, Adrien had insisted that she keep his journals and all documents that he ever had. He begged her and pleaded that she would at least keep a piece of him close to her and safe. She couldn't trust a word that came from the man's lip after the incident that occurred, but the least she could have done was keep his personal papers and journal entries safe despite the fact that the dissolving of the marriage was partially because her discovery of these papers.

Her brain quickly flash-backed to the night when he had come to her apartment and stood in the door frame of their old home one last time.

* * *

><p><em>He was wearing a gray, nice suit and his dark hair was slicked back. It had reminded her of when she first laid eyes on him, but despite his handsome appeal; she knew he was dangerous. She knew that any love she had for him was covered by her strong, strong lack of trust.<em>

"_Keep the journals, the documents, everything in that box safe. It is the only thing I ask of you now, Rebecca," He said, his voice tranquil and as heavily accented with his French heritage as it had always been.  
><em>

"_You are playing with fire, Adrien," She said to him from the loveseat in the sitting room, laying her hand on the box that he referenced._

_He looked away from her," Perhaps, I am, but I cannot change what has already happened."_

"_What happens when they come looking for these? What happens when they discover me? It does not take much research to look back into marriage licenses or personal records of history," She argued, lifting the box into her lap. "You already involved me enough. You only married me because I could assist you in this."_

_Color rushed to his face as she watched his hands coil into fists," You know that is not true."_

"_Do I?" She shot back, making direct eye contact with her, now ex-husband. "Because it seems as though I was merely a tool for you to appear worthy in front of these…these…voracious men. If you think you can outsmart them, then you are wrong."_

_He looked down at the palms of his hands," I've created enough diversions away from you that it will be many, many years before they even think to link you to me."_

"_Suppose they make the connection and come to my store," She said to him with a raise of her brow. "What am I to do, Adrien?"_

"_Rebecca, you know exactly who will come knocking on your door and you know what you must do," He told her, finally looking back to her, the anger in his voice clearly rising._

"Would you mind my asking your name, sir?" Rebecca asked, coming back to reality from her flashback.

He looked at her as if she were mad. This was exactly what his colleague had wished would not happen. Many hours he had argued in the office with the professor over how she would never remember him, but the evidence seemed to be presenting itself clearly into front of the table. It appeared as though she was catching on.

Realizing if he wanted any more information, he was going to have to answer her question," My name is…Sebastian Moran."

And it was all the seamstress could do not to gasp. How could she had been so daft to not recognize him before?

**A/N: So the web is getting a little more complex and a little more sticky. Perhaps, you have a very vague idea of the association with Rebecca, but I do not expect you to understand any of the specifics yet. With that being said, please tell me what you think! This chapter took some work, haha. Thanks to you all who have been reviewing this story! I really appreciate it! :D**


	9. A Strenuous Situation

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything relating to Sherlock Holmes. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as I'm sure you know.**

Chapter Nine: A Strenuous Situation

Rebecca swallowed hard and dropped her fork on the table before looking over her shoulder to see two men standing in the doorway, watching the situation closely. Anxiety was flowing through her veins as the military man shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Sebastian, surely you are not-" She trailed off, but he simply raised a hand.

"Rebecca, I am not here to speak casually with you. I am here to discuss business which I have been sent to do by a colleague of mine. Both you and I know who your former husband crossed in the wrong way and all I need is for you to tell me where the damn papers are," He said slowly and firmly, looking directly at her.

Despite the clarity of his words, she could not help but think back to the man she once respected in the marksman. She simply shook her head, trying to figure out just how she was going to get out of this situation. Nervously, she smoothed the napkin on her lap and looked back to the marksmen face, smiling," Colonel Moran, you've come quite a ways down hill."

He did not return the smile, but simply told her," I just want information."

"And I understand," She answered curtly, taking a sip of her water. "I can give you the information that you need."

"I'm glad that you understand the severity of the situation in which you are dealing with," He said back to her finally, he smirked.

Quickly, the wheels inside her head were turning, thinking of a ploy that she could send him on, that was believable. Her words began coming out more quickly than she could completely process them," You know that I was in London last weekend and I presume that you had a careful eye on me for the entire trip."

He nodded, carefully paying attention.

Instantly, her mind thought to the symbols she had placed on the bottom of each of her pages on the notebook. The symbols were there merely for a matter of organization, but that could easily be manipulated...

"Actually, you took something of mine that was rather dear to both myself and to Adrien," She said to him, moving her silverware closer to the edge of the table, obviously crafting something in her mind.

"The sketchbook," Moran affirmed, as if reading her mind.

"Yes, that is correct. If you looked at the symbols in the corner of the-"

"Corners of the pages," He interrupted, nodding his head before motioning to the waiter standing in the door to bring in the main course. "I thought this would be the case."

She thought that, perhaps, she could get him to believe that she no longer had the sketchbook," It's a shame, really that you had to take such a thing from me. I'd actually be very interested to know how you obtained it-"

"Cut this nonsense, Rebecca," He shook his head as he leaned back in his seat. "Both you and I know that you were miraculously able to receive your valuable little notebook."

"Oh," She raised her brow at him. "And how do you know that _I_ have the sketchbook, Colonel?"

"Well," He paused. "It only seems plausible for you to have it. When it was apprehended from you, it was only a matter of hours before it was re-taken again, remarkably enough from one of the men transporting it to a safer location. You may remember these men as the ones who shot at you."

This, she could definitely have a little fun with.

"Suppose that one of your men dropped the sketchpad?" She asked amused by her own question, but his face remained stoic. She tried again. "If your men remember correctly, I was not entirely alone on this little wild chase, now was I? There was a strange man-"

"Someone in cohorts with you," He growled, obviously irate with the seamstress.

"No, no, no colonel. I am afraid you are mistaken," She argued, trying to sound as honest as she could. "I know this man as much as you know him. I am simply stating a possible place in which this sketchpad could have been…snatched from. Anything I had regarding Mr. Dubois was taken from my possession."

For a minute, he stared directly at her. During this time, she took a last bite of her salad before drinking the remains of her water. Indeed, she did have the sketchpad which was locked safely away under the floorboards of her home. There was no way that they could ever discover where. She had it carefully placed not only under the floorboards, but also locked away in a crafty safe that she had found at an open market before. Her plan was succeeding in getting him off-topic. If he could get off on meaningless tangents, then it would be impossible for him to further press her for information that he desired.

Suddenly, his eyes shifted from her and looked to the door frame where Rebecca could hear the shuffle of feet. Presumably, another two or three of his men were standing in the door, informing him of something. He nodded to them before looking back to her, leaning forward as he pushed the salad aside.

Just as he put the salad beside, the waiter came back and took the plates before setting two glasses of wine on the table, in addition to the main course, which appeared to be a meat, foreign to Rebecca with a nice garnish on top of it. It appeared to be quite the hearty meal and the fact that he had ordered for her did not surprise her, but intrigued her rather. She studied her meal closely before her eyes shifted to the glass of wine. Common knowledge was that any man insisted that a woman drink with him was not to be trusted whether it be for personal or business affairs.

"What you mean to tell me is that there is absolutely nothing of value in that little shop of yours?" He asked her, narrowing his eyes. "And by valuable, I mean, _anything_. The sketchpad…the papers Mr. Dubois left you."

She swallowed casually before answering," There is nothing of interest to you there."

"You see, Mrs. Dubois," He said, leaning back once more. "Those papers are valuable to both myself and you. In fact, they may be more of sentimental value to you while to me, they are what I need in order to fix a corrupt business deal that your ex-husband incepted. I'm sure that I can find other ways of discovering just what your little husband did to my colleague and I, but that is all you have."

"What are you insinuating?" She shot at him. "I have no further interest in my swine of a husband."

"Suppose I had men waiting for my call, standing outside of your shop with explosives. You mean to tell me that if I give them the okay, then you will feel no pain from this? No documents will be lost? No pieces of your precious, excuse me, _swine_ of a husband, shattered?"

The reality of this statement hit her moments after he had actually spoke the words. He wasn't simply speaking theoretically…he must have actually meant what he was saying. This meant that she had to act and fast. She knew that he was setting her up for something, but she just did not know what. She hoped that she was not over thinking this meal, but it was the only risk she had left to take: plan an escape. It was getting much too personal now.

"Well, I think this was not necessarily be accurate. I've plenty of garments in that shop of value-" She started spewing off, but he simply shook his head.

"Those can be recreated, Mrs. Dubois."

Carefully, she shifted her silverware even closer to the edge of the table, hoping that this plan she was crafting inside her head would work out as the colonel watched the seamstress, as if waiting for her to eat or speak.

She noted that he had not touched his plate and he was simply waiting for her. This could have meant that the food was spoiled and he wished for her to plunge in first or this meant that he was playing mind games with her and wished that she would over think everything. There was something about the way the wine settled that made her nervous-uneasy rather. However, the glass was filled half-way, just as any average wine glass should be. She glanced behind her to see that the doorframe was empty and that it truly was just the colonel and herself.

Mentally, she noted just where the balance support to the table was and imagined just the right position of her foot. The decision she was making would either save her completely or ruin any chance she had at getting out of this problem. She would have to make an impact with the table at just the right angle and swap the glasses as swiftly as she knew how.

Her heart seemed to be beating out of her chest and he was rambling on more and more questions, but she was not paying the slightest bit of attention to him. At just the right moment, she crashed her leg against the beam of the table, interrupting the conversation, shaking the wine glasses, and dropping her silverware off the table, several inches away. Nervously and slightly embarrassed, she smirked at him and apologized.

"A little uneasy, are we?" He pressed, eyeing her warily as he grabbed the gun, as if suspecting something and bending nearly out of his chair to retrieve the silverware.

The moment was simply pristine. Checking over her shoulder once more to see that they were indeed alone, she delicately grabbed her glass and slid it precisely to the position in which his was located. Hurriedly, she lifted his and casually held it in her hand, as if it were her own. As she sat back in her chair, smiling, while he leaned back up and placed the fork and knife in front of her.

"Ever the gentleman, as always," She said, still sporting a smile before sipping the wine in the glass, hoping that her gut instinct had been correct.

As the liquid traveled down her throat, she felt the gaze of the colonel watching her as he hesitantly lifted his own glass, as if her drinking the liquid was enough affirmation for him to drink his. Every prayer that Rebecca had remembered from her sparse church attendance was being sent up as she waited to see just what was to happen.

"Colonel, you say that you are prepared to destroy my shop, but I pose a question to you," She stated, watching him drink another gulp of the wine before setting her own glass down. "Do you honestly believe that I would not report such activity to the police? Do you think that even for a moment, I would allow you to leave, _unscathed_?"

"You've no evidence. In fact, my colleague thought of this exact situation," There was a pause as he turned to cough into his arm, nothing suspicious, but simply a cough rather. " He has a tendency to go to extremes in order to leave…_no…loose…ends_."

She raised her brow before nodding her head, slowly watching him," No loose ends, eh?"

"Yes," Again, he coughed into his arm, making Rebecca become slightly anxious. "Something you may not fully comprehend. Loose ends are exactly what led me to find you again."

Chuckling, she replied," Perhaps, but I suspect that this was a special exception, as well. You knew me previously despite the business matters. I'd say that you had an unfair advantage."

He smirked," Perhaps-" And he was about to speak once more, but the casual coughing had turned into a rather thunderous chain of coughs, deep coughs. Something, was array and she couldn't help but think that this was the signal she was waiting for. Slowly, his fit of coughing slowed, but his eyes were lazy and consciousness was slipping from his grasp.

Still, they were alone with no eyes on them. Swiftly, she moved over to the man that had suddenly turned from consciousness to a dull state in a matter of minutes. Though she had no knowledge of medicine, she supposed this could have been the result of an experimental medicine that he had intended for her. She slowly stood up and walked over to his side of the table, leaning over to him. As she stood beside him, she carefully slid her hand down his jacket as he slid forward, falling from reality, pulling the gun from his possession.

Though she would have been esteemed to continue the search to find just what else this man was hiding, but she assumed she would have little time before her beloved shop was destroyed or they were invaded by his fellow cronies.

His glassy eyes looked at her, as if glaring while she lingered over his shoulder, whispering right in his ear," I'm not so much a fool to be sedated twice, Sebastian. You will have to find a more clever way to figure out how to tie up this loose end."

Softly, she pecked his cheek before turning and looking at the gun which she had swiped from him. Carefully, she lifted the wine glass which he had drank from, much too quickly. She dumped the remains of his drink into her previous glass and noticed a white, thick residue laying at the bottom of his, that was originally intended for her. She stuck two fingers to his neck, feeling that he still had a pulse. She assumed he would not die for his intentions were not to kill Rebecca, but simply take her out of the equation and retrieve her valuable information.

Swiftly, she checked the ammunition in the gun while strolling toward the exit and swore under her breath before looking back at the English man, now completely out of consciousness. He was too intelligent to completely fall for her ploy.

The gun was empty.

**A/N: Well, the good news is that finals are over and I can now write more frequently. As of now, it appears that this story still is not very popular, so it may go on the back burner-I will still update it, but not as often as my other story. I hope that those of you who are reading enjoyed this chapter and continue to let me know what you think! :D**


	10. Devastation

**Disclaimer: As you know, I own nothing of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's. There is also a piece from Shakespeare's "As You Like It" in this chapter and I, obviously, do not own that either.**

Chapter Ten: Devastation

Several men followed her as she pushed through the tightly packed streets of Paris, caring little of the pursuit, but more of the men already at her shop. She had to at least get into the shop to save any of the wedding materials still in there. Her other projects truly were re-creatable, but not the wedding plans. Those were already permanent that could not be changed. She had already sent copies of the plans to Mary in London.

It was at that moment that she realized what had just run through her head.

Copies were at Mary's residence.

In fact, she had sent a copy of everything already completed just the afternoon before. Even if the men did successfully ruin the shop, then they had not completely destroyed her.

With that detail aside, she felt a whole new horror race inside her head: that shop was her dream. It was everything that she had ever wished to be as a child. Even though it was small, it was what the French would call…_moelleux_, or comfortable. Despite the fact that all of the ghastly memories with Adrien had been there, it still held a special place in her heart.

Deep down, it was arguable that the shop was her way of staying connected to the man she had fallen in love with. With the terrible memories, there was also the pleasant memories such as the one when she had first met him and the brief time as a couple they spent together.

Had her mother not died so tragically, Rebecca knew that she would have wanted to see the creation that the two of them had created come alive together.

At seemingly the worst moment ever, she flashbacked to the days when mother would sit down with her at the kitchen table, teaching her to sew:

* * *

><p>"<em>Darling, careful," The slender, dark haired woman told her child, looking at her out of the side of her brown eyes. <em>

_With mature, worn, hands, she assisted her daughter, a young Rebecca with the article of clothing in her small hands, that she had already scraped once or twice on the single project alone which consisted of a teapot cover for her mother's delicate pot._

"_Looks as though I have another sewer in the family," The mother commented on the fresh scrape on Rebecca's tiny hands, smiling as she helped her child with the yarn._

_Rebecca looked up to her mother with the matching brown eyes and smiling," I like to make pretty things for you, mother."_

_Her mother stood up, smoothing her light green dress that she had sewn together herself, before turning and fetching a piece of cloth to wrap around her daughter's cut. It was not as though this technique was foreign to her since she too had cut her fingers plenty of times while sewing._

_Rebecca's mother was a lovely lady with a slender jaw line and, unlike many women of her generation, with short hair, cut nearly to her ears. In many ways, Rebecca resembled her mother, only with_ _much longer hair, even as a child, and eyes that were a lighter shade of brown, much like her father's._

_After retrieving the cloth and wetting it slightly, she re-entered the kitchen and sat down next to her daughter, whom she nearly fought simply to get the cover out of her hands._

"_Mother, I am almost-" She argued, but her mother pried the material out of her hands._

"_Darling, please just pause for a moment. You have been busy all morning," Her mother scolded, grabbing her small wrist and keeping it steady against the table before applying direct pressure to the open wound, though Rebecca would not have described it as such._

"_Mother," She argued, before holding her head with her hand while her mother cleaned the scrape. _

_The mother responded with a chuckle as she tied the cloth around the cut and finished touching her daughter," There you are, all done."_

_Instead of going right back to work, Rebecca looked at her mother's dress and then back to her mother," When will you teach me to make my own clothing?"_

_Her mother smiled, proud to have a fellow seamstress," Well, we will have to see how well you do on this cover first, but I am sure that by_ _the looks of things-you will be just fine and I will be teaching you clothing first thing next week."_

_It was as if two lights were burning in her brown eyes as she looked up to her mother, excited for what was to come._

_As Rebecca worked again, her mother sat, running her fingers through her daughter's hair. Her mother couldn't help but daydream of what her child would look like one day and which traits she would posses from herself and from her husband. She knew that her mind worked very similar to how her husband's side of the family worked-very logical and analytical, but her talent was clearly in sewing. No other child she had ever witnessed before had been able to sew so beautifully. _

"_One day, mom, I want to make clothing," Rebecca said as innocently as she could. "In as store, with lots of pretty fabric!"_

"_You have yet to make clothing," Her mother commented, smirking still as she observed her daughter._

"_I know, but I love dresses mother and to be able to make them would be simply…heavenly," Rebecca said as her mother chuckled at her choice of words._

"_You wish to open a shop of your own, then?" Her mother asked, still fiddling with her daughter's hair._

_Again, Rebecca's eyes lit up as she turned to her mother," I could do that?"_

"_Of course, you know that I was a seamstress," She told her daughter, who was suddenly intent on her rather than the project in her hands. "That's how I met your father after all, not that he was the sewing type, but just lost and in need of directions."_

_And so it was that the daughter was to be just like mother…_

* * *

><p>The events of her past played in her head so vividly that she nearly forgot what she was running to. It only took the sound of men yelling from behind her for her to snap her head back into reality and realize that both of her parents were gone and that she, unlike her mother, had not ended up with the man who had wandered into the seamstress' shop by mistake.<p>

She saw that there was only a block more before she could met the truth face-to-face and see if there was hope for the place that she truly did hold so dear.

A gunshot echoed through the mass of people and she heard women scream, men holler, and children shriek before she looked over her should to see the people split and the gunman standing at the end of the street corner, eyes locked on her. Taking a deep breath in, Rebecca turned the corner onto the street where her shop was located.

In the middle of the street, stood the baker whom lived next door and his family gather closely around him. Just as she came to the corner, the plump man looked up just in time. Instantly, she noticed his eyes turn to a look of pure horror.

"_Rebecca, demi-tour! Laisser!_" Even a person who could not speak French could tell by his frantic waving of hands and body language that he was telling her to leave. Quickly.

She swallowed, but before she could even think to process her next movement, she watched as seemingly out-of-nowhere, the shop burst into flames, it did not; however, explode, but the fire started at the front and slowly ate away at the entire façade of both her shop and the baker's.

The baker's family broke down into tears as the fire ate away at both of the structures. Rebecca's eyes should have been searching for the culprit, but all she could feel was the slow ripping she felt deep in her stomach. She had feared this would happen, but the fact that it was happening in front of her right then was devastating. Slowly, she ambled toward the family and stood near them, listening to their loud sobs. She couldn't help but feel guilt pounding upon her shoulders; they had done nothing iniquitous.

Technically, she had done no wrong either, but she had been associated with such evil things and deserved the punishment more than the innocent family.

The men that she had feared were pressing down on both sides of the street as she was stuck in the moment. Luckily for her, the police were also coming quickly down the same street, spreading themselves around the whole perimeter. It would not be that night when they took Rebecca-she was safe for the time being.

As the police came searching for the owners of the establishments, she did pull herself out of the torturous moment for a second to watch the well-dressed men pass behind her, glaring as they were forced to exit the scene. She eyed them carefully, determined not to let them see her weak. They would not have the pleasure of knowing that they hurt her, even though it was evident to both that they had.

"Madame Dubois?" A male police officer asked several moments later, standing in front of her as she heard the crunching of the weakened, black structure that she once called her shop in the background. "_Nous avons quelques questions pour vous."_

He was telling her that she was to answer their questions next. Of course, all she could do was hope that her answers would lead them back to the source who did this. She told them all of the information she knew of the situation-including about Sebastian Moran. Naturally, they would not be able to understand the depth, or severity rather, of this situation, but she could at least present them with all of the information that had occurred over the last twenty-four hours and some of what had happened in London.

After the questionings ceased, all sorts of people flooded the street to get a glimpse of the latest news story. Rebecca spoke with the baker's family, apologizing for the events even when they tried to assure her that she was not the one to blame. The baker explained how they were threatened by the same men who had told the family why this was happening to them. Their reasoning being Rebecca herself, but they were good enough companions to know that Rebecca would never knowingly cause harm to them.

The police came back again and tried to convince Rebecca to come with them back to their headquarters so that it was ensured that she would be safe for the night. She told them that she would be sure to come to the headquarters, but only after she spoke with the family one last time. In reality, she had no intentions of speaking with the family, but simply wished to buy herself some time to allow the moment to become real.

For a single moment, the entire street was empty. Her shop, still glowing with the last of the fire burning, standing in front of her. She folded her arms over her chest, trying to hold in her emotions. She tried so hard, but wetness came to her eyes without her control. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she reached up to wipe the tears away, but they were spilling from her eyes faster than she could stop them.

"Mother would be very disappointed," She whispered so that only she could hear, not that anyone else would have even been close to hearing. "As am I."

A cool breeze blew through the street and as she sniffled one last time, she turned away from the sight. Somehow, she knew that she would need to retrieve the documents inside of that store, locked away, but it would be implausible for her to do such a thing at that moment while the embers were still so fresh.

"_All the world's a stage. And all the men and women merely players…" _A voice from behind her quoted a line from a play that she knew so well that she had memorized it by heart, the voice was haunting with a hollow, reverberating sound to it.

She could hardly believe that she was hearing this once-familiar voice again. It was as if her past was echoing through the street, but she turned to look upon the face, only to see it hidden amongst the dark shadows.

Without even thinking, she continued the line, searching the dark alley for the voice she knew so well," _They have their exits and their entrances…"_

"_And one man in his time plays many parts…" _He quoted, just as he had many times before.

And as before, she finished with the last line of the selection from Shakespeare's _As You Like It._

"_His acts being seven ages_."

**A/N: So, what did you think of the flashback? How about the quoting of Shakespeare at the end? Who is the man in the shadows?  
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	11. Memories of the Past

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's brilliant mind.**

Chapter Eleven: Memories of the Past

"What business brings you to Paris?" Rebecca asked, setting her eyes forward again upon her store which was still slowly burning.

She heard short footsteps in the dark alley before the voice answered," Simple trepidation is all."

"I never wished to speak with you again," She said, her tone bright, but her intention obviously much more chide and sharp, sarcastic rather.

A chuckle escaped his lips," Ah, but dear Rebecca, surely you know that you could not keep me out in the dark for such a length of time as this. A, seemingly, effortless change of the last name does not erase the relationship that preceded such foul play."

"Foul play?" She asked with a raise of her brow before spinning on her heel to look at the shadows in which he hid himself. "Is that what you still think my marriage to be?"

"Your _prior_ 'marriage'. I do not know if you realize this, but you are no longer bound to that man, but perhaps you never truly were…emotionally that is…or was, rather," The quirky fellow spat out all the words at a pace rapid to the rate at which Rebecca's blood was boiling.

All she simply did was stare into the shadows in which she presumed his body to be leaning against the wall of the establishment. Oh, the days when they could freely quote the lines of Shakespeare and trust one another as any healthy relationship, whether it be romantic, casual, or family-oriented…deserved.

"And to think that for a moment I was pleased to hear your voice," The seamstress spat at him before turning away from him, beginning to walk away. "Go back to London, Sherlock! I've no interest in playing your little games of deduction as I presume that you have come to do with me in my current situation."

Just as soon as she began to walk quickly away, was the moment she heard quickened footsteps from behind and the detective sprinting after her in the dark roadway of Paris," Suppose that my 'little games of deduction' could save your life? Hm? Have you considered that, dear Rebecca?"

She stopped as the silence filled the air compassing the both of them. Had she wished to see the arrogant, eccentric, and periodically, downright rude Sherlock Holmes again, then she would have gone to visit him, but his coming to her was, in all honesty, unexpected. Deep down, she knew that for him to express concern for her again, must have meant that the danger presenting itself was quite severe. Although she would never admit that aloud, she did allow for herself to pause and respond to his statement.

"Sherlock," She sighed. "Last time that I trusted you…"

He interrupted," You did not hear what it was that you _desired_ to hear."

At this she spun around, looking directly at the dark-greasy-messy-haired detective with whom she would have once trusted with her life. She couldn't help but be taken aback by the sight of him once more. Many years had passed since she had last seen this man and it took all of her will power to bite down on her tongue and keep from lashing out at him.

"No!" She yelled defensively as she pulled her arms over her chest. "You were…you were absolutely horrendous! You broke nearly everything that we had been taught as children. Not to mention that you placed my life at risk. You played games with ideas that should never be meddled with!"

He tilted his head at her, looking her straight in the eye," In my defense, I was protecting your name. I was protecting someone whom I actually…. cared for. I was protecting your future to be able to pursuit a career without persecution."

She chuckled, very dryly, before yelling and pointing a finger at the store" And look where your defense mechanisms got me!"

He shook his head with a very tight jaw," Do _not_ blame this on me! This is the work of a Professor by the name of Moriarty. If you want the root of the problem, or the origin, mathematically speaking, then you should look at yourself. Or let me restate that, look at those whom you _link_ yourself with."

She swallowed hard for her was right. Rebecca Dubois could not stand it when Sherlock Holmes was right, especially in her presence. Unfortunately, it happened that he was accurate a high percentage of the time and it was for that reason that she had to answer his statement with an honest answer.

"With whom I link _my_self with should not involve _your_self," She answered, still clearly very stiff.

He looked down, before looking up and meeting her eyes," It just so happens that they do…in this particular instance."

The seamstress did not know whether to take this comment seriously or to simply walk away, as she had many years ago, to the police station so that they would no longer worry of her. For some reason, her heart was urging her to stay put and not to move anywhere. She simply looked at him, blinking slowly.

"Sebastian Moran is quite possibly the second most dangerous man in London. Coincidentally, I have been studying Moran and his 'colleague', Moriarty for awhile now and have put together a theory of my own as to their intentions and since you are one of their main targets…then I suppose that means that you and I would be destined to meet again eventually," He rattled on, moving his hands about in a casual manner before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out what she presumed to be a cigar. "One day, I happened to be following Sebastian and his men only to see that my old…_companion _was being followed by my current specimen. Strangely enough, I delved deeper to find that this old friend of mine was being targeted by these precarious men."

"How did you-?" She started, but he simply continued speaking, but her eyes gazed down to the shoes that he was currently wearing.

Being a woman of clothing, she remembered this same style of shoe on the strange man that she had been rescued by whilst in London. Feeling as though she had just run into a wall of futility, she shook her head in disbelief.

"Though it was quite the challenge, I managed to take away from them what wasn't theirs to take and also managed to track down their next planned movement against dear Rebecca Dubois. Though it would seem men such as themselves would be more secretive about their tactics, they were nothing of the sort…though they may not have thought a simple beggar would have been eavesdropping on their conversation," He babbled on, lighting his cigar before softly blowing smoke into the night air.

She folded her arms over her chest," You are still playing dress up, then? I suppose that if you are to play dress up, then I may as well offer my advice-be more inconspicuous with your choice of shoe. You have been wearing the same style since I last saw you many years ago. Had you not been wearing such an obvious exclamation of identity, then I may not have even recognized you."

The pieces of the evening in London were all starting to make a little more sense in her head.

He blinked several times before nodding, affirming his mistake solemnly before smirking," Only a Holmes would recognize such a negligible detail."

"Unless you've forgotten, my last name is no longer such," She responded curtly, tempted to turn away from him. She had heard all of the information she wished to hear at this point and now was better able to understand the events of London. Anything involving Sherlock seemed to turn into a larger ordeal than it need be.

"Ah, but you are surely not so foolish to believe that a last name changes one's heritage," He told her, to which she turned on her heel and began walking away once more. He jogged to keep up alongside her before speaking again. "Though I am not sure that the name 'Dubois' fits you any better than 'Holmes' did. Both figuratively and…literally."

She allowed the air to settle in the awkward moment, saying nothing, but walking briskly toward the corner of the road. Just before she could turn the corner and say farewell for what she would have hoped to be good, the English detective literally threw himself in front of her before grabbing her arms.

"_Bon sang, Sherlock!" _She exclaimed, fighting his grasp briefly._ "Savez-vous pas de limites?**_"

"Trust me, Rebecca," He said, looking down, but breathing steadily, more than likely in order to keep his calm. "If you turn around that corner, then you will more than likely be…in a situation which you will not be able to charm your way out of. Or deduce."

She narrowed her eyes at him, though she half-heartedly believed him," You've already knocked me from consciousness once and sent me through on a wild, gun-firing chase all through the city of London. Why should I believe you?"

"In more simple language, I have saved your life once…what is stopping me from doing it once again?" His words were true…even though Rebecca did not wish to hear such words. The bluntness of his speech rang in her ears for several moments before she took a step away from the corner.

"Only that you will keep me informed…unlike the last time in London," She said, avoiding eye contact with him.

He chuckled before releasing another puff of smoke," It was for your own good, Rebecca."

"Under a concoction that was _not_ made by a medical doctor? Was that suppose to be for my own good? Even for someone as brilliant as yourself, it seems-" She was interrupted by Sherlock pulling her into the nearest alley, with no regard to her statement. "Sherlock!"

He shoved his hand over her mouth to silence her from speaking any further, what he had seen from the corner of his eye was the movement of more of Moran's men coming around the corner. Had he moved her a split-second later, then they would have been seen. The severe look in his eyes told her that something had clearly happened.

Slowly, he moved his hand from her mouth and placed a finger upon his own before pointing to the street. As she looked, he migrated behind a stack of crates stacked in the corner, a shipment more than likely, for one of the local businesses.

A troop of well-dressed men strolled down the street, saying nothing, but simply walking along.

"You wish to be informed?" He asked, or rather breathed under his breath. "Those are the men who wish to kill you."

"They've come to see what's left of my shop," She confirmed, needing no explanation for their whereabouts.

"Precisely," He affirmed. "More than likely, they seek a valuable document of yours…something you would hide in say, a vault hidden beneath the floorboards of your home?"

Her eyes widened as she gazed on him. No one knew of her vault and she had intended to keep it that way. She hadn't known what was more dangerous, the idea of Moran getting his hands on the papers inside her vault or the idea of Sherlock Holmes knowing of its contents. Of course, Moran would have been worse, but Holmes being able to figure out such a thing truly did prove her lack of attention to detail.

"H-how do you know-?" She spluttered, looking at him as though he was some sort of alien.

At this moment, he pulled his cigar from his mouth and set it up one of the crates before reaching inside of his coat pocket and pulling out the documents, clothed in a tightly sealed envelope. As of a couple hours before, they had been locked in the safety of the vault and yet, there they were…in the hands of her estranged relative.

She swiped to take them from his grasp, but he shook his head, tutting her as if she was a small child," Now, now-"

"Sherlock Holmes, I demand-" She spoke a little to loudly for their current predicament and toned down her volume. "Sherlock Holmes, I demand you divulge the details in which you discovered those documents."

Taking the whole situation rather lightly, he smiled and sat upon one of the crates, looking up at her," Ah, I will tell you that just as soon as you tell me how you were able to escaped unscathed from dinner with Moran."

"I'm surprised you can not deduce such," She spat at him, her eyes set on the papers in his hand.

"Just as I am surprised you cannot deduce how I came upon these," He waved the papers about in his hand before tucking them back in his coat. "And how you knew that my concoction was not of the most innovative medical technology."

If he wanted to play this game, then she could force herself to play such a game with him. She returned the smirk before leaning against the cold, hard wall of the alleyway," I suppose it is the one gene of a Holmes still remaining in me."

Sherlock smirked back at her as a final puff of smoke was emitted from his lips," Dear cousin, I'm sorry to hear that you've lost nearly all of your intelligence after marrying that Dubois bloke."

For the first time in many years, Rebecca Dubois was forced to accept the fact that she did indeed still have some family surviving. Two…geographically and relationally distant cousins living in London. One of them standing in front of her, Sherlock, and the other, Mycroft, whom she assumed to be living back in London, happily and safely.

**A/N: So, reactions? Predictions? I still can't commit to a strict updating schedule, so please bear with me!**

**curlycue- Ah, so you **_**have**_** read the description. I should write "eventual" on there because any romance really will not occur until later in the story and the OC mentioned may** **not even be the current one you are referencing. :D**

**French Translation (roughly)**

****Good grief, Sherlock. Do you know no limits? **


	12. Almost Trapped

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from Sherlock Holmes.**

Chapter Twelve: Nearly Trapped

Her eyes were narrow as she scrutinized his face. In his hands were the sacred documents that Adrien had requested she keep safe and all of her being wanted to know why her obstinate cousin, whom she had wished to be parted from permanently, was holding them as men stormed her burned store, searching for the very documents.

"What detail gave away the concoction?" He demanded, biting down on his pipe as he held the documents.

"Are we really going to play this game?" She sighed, slouching against the alley wall. "We haven't seen one another in nearly-_many _years and should we not at least reminisce and tell the other what we have been…up to."

Sherlock knew her personality far too well, even though they had been apart for many years. He knew when Rebecca Holmes (Dubois) was trying to swindle him and this was one of her more obvious and rather pathetic attempts. Smirking, he pulled his pipe from his lips and shook his head while exhaling.

"Very cunning. You want only to entertain my time with other follies than the question I have presented you with," He shot back at her. "Tell me, dear cousin."

She sighed and shook her head, not wishing to delve into the details in which she had deduced such a thing, but she found that a different approach could be taken to the question which may have been enough to make Sherlock believe it.

"It wasn't the concoction in itself, but your shoes rather," She said simply with a curt tone to her voice as she folded her arms over her chest and looked him straight in the eye.

He narrowed his eyes," What's wrong with my shoes?"

She chuckled before continuing on with the story," I have explained why your shoes told me precisely who you were on that evening. Leading me to remember the appalling beard you had on your face along with that…jacket, whose holes were much too planned and not nearly rugged enough. When I awoke the next morning, I noticed a sketchbook sitting on my bedside table and realized that only one person would have been close enough to any of those men to be able to retrieve it. Even without that detail, it was rather obvious as to who had retrieved the book. I then noticed that an entire chunk of my evening was missing…strangely enough. As if, I had been...knocked unconscious, but since I had no signs of bruises on my head, but a rather repulsive taste in my mouth that led to my stomach…I concluded that the strange savior I knew as Sherlock Holmes must have concocted some sort of chemical brew similar to those he had brewed as a teenager and experimented with as a child."

This story may have been a slight exaggeration, but by the look on her cousin's face, it was enough to turn the "wheels" in his brain. He held eye contact with her for a long period of time before saying simply," Very well, done."

Just as he was handing the papers to her, he jerked them back suddenly, much to her displeasure, and whispered, panicked," Was the jacket really that palpable?"

Narrowing her glance, she stood up straight before leaning forward and snatching the papers from his hands before he could protest and said with a very dry tone," I am a seamstress. It is my occupation to see such miniscule details in clothing."

"Interesting that you mention your career at this time," He said, gazing off into the distance, appearing very aloof for several moments. The silence was almost too perfect; it was as though Sherlock was listening for...something. Rebecca was scrutinizing his face and was about to open her mouth to question him, just when they heard the sound of rapid gunfire, but not far from the alley, but down the alley, rather. Directly toward them. "I suppose this is our cue, come along!"

Every moment with Sherlock Holmes was never dull. She could hardly even breath steadily as another bullet came spiraling through the alley. The detective was a good yard's length in front of her and she quickly sprinted, careful to run in a pattern that was not predictable. A moving target was, indeed, harder to hit.

Once she was even with Sherlock again, she asked him, already nearly out of breath," Please tell me that this was part of your plan."

"This?" He asked, looking at her. "Oh yes, certainly."

For a split second, she felt comfortable.

It was that next moment that the opposite end of the alley, the next street that they were running toward became blocked with more men, aiming heavy artillery at the both of them.

"_That?_" He asked, motioning toward the obvious block in the path. "I cannot say that was part of the plan, but-"

He paused as if he was crafting a plan, but they were still running and no words were coming from his lips.

"Sherlock, _dépêchez-vous**_!" Rebecca yelled frantically, eying the other men with a rather worried look on her face.

"_Il n'y a rien à craindre**!"_ He shot back, pulling his pipe out of his mouth and looking into his coat pockets for some sort of answer to the current situation presenting itself in front of the both of them.

"Nothing to worry about?" She exclaimed before pulling him to his knees to avoid the shooting from both in front and behind them. A round passed before they were up again, looking about like two escaped convicts being caught. "That sounds like something to worry about. We have to surrender…its our only hope for surviving this."

He grimaced, hating the idea of Rebecca actually being correct, but he would not allow her to feel as though she had outsmarted him for long.

"Follow my lead," He muttered to her before tucking his, now dead, pipe back into his pocket, but careful to make note of where it was for later use. She looked at him, very nervously, before he slowed to a stop, allowing the troupe of men behind them to catch up in a matter of seconds. Rebecca shook her head at him incredulously…sure, he was to listen to her, but was this really as bold as they were to do it?

Sherlock slowly put his hands in the air to which Rebecca mimicked and turned so that both the men on the left and right could be plainly seen. Instantly, men on both sides of them put down their weapons and slowed their pace down to a walk, all eyes were on the two of them. Though the chase had come to an end; the air was still tense as the two groups of men merged together to circle both Rebecca and Sherlock.

"What are you thinking?" She mumbled to him, barely audible, but gruff enough for him to know that she was not pleased.

"I'm doing precisely as you told me to do," He grumbled back to her.

Before she could argue any further, a man began to yell at the both of them in French. Rebecca understood most of it, but the bit was so long and detailed that she could not pick out each and every little utterance of it. For the most part, he wanted them to dispose of any weapons they may have been carrying on their person. His rage and passion were enough to spell out what he wanted-even to a non-French speaking civilian. Slyly, Sherlock slid his hand down and snatched the documents from Rebecca's hand which she had held on to rather tightly.

"For safe keeping," He whispered to her, slyly.

Her jaw nearly dropped to the ground as she gave him another sour look. The French leader's eyes set back onto the two of them, similar to that of a hawk's. He was a short man, but he most certainly was not weak. He appeared to be rather strong for a man of his size. As he questioned them further, Rebecca noticed Sherlock become antsy.

"You are carrying weapons? No?" The man barked at them.

Instantly, Sherlock looked to his cousin accusingly, who looked at him rather irritated.

"What?" She hissed at him, wishing he would simply go along with what the man was saying and not try to bring any unnecessary harm to her.

He nodded at her to the man, practically telling him that she was armed. The men behind them closed in as their "leader" from the front stepped forward to further examine the suspected "armed" woman. Inside her head, Rebecca was swearing at Sherlock and did not cease from glaring at him. It was a habit of hers to keep a knife on her at all times, as well as enough money in order to survive for a few days time. Perhaps, it was simply paranoia, but she never wanted to take any risks with the life of the city. The weapons were

"Your companion zhinks you to be armed," The man accused with a heavily French accent, eyeing the seamstress warily. "Is zhis true?"

Rebecca stared at him for a long, hard moment before reaching into the bust of her dress and pulling out a sheathed knife before tossing it to the ground a the man's feet. He looked at her as if she had performed some sort of high-class crime and even snorted slightly while picking up the weapon.

While holding the knife, the man proceeded to examine it thoroughly, even unsheathing it to see the full blade. After satisfied, he looked back at the seamstress whilst shaking his head, as if ashamed," Zhe professor is going to be very pleased to see you."

Rebecca looked at Sherlock out of the side of her eye before turning back to the man," Well, I suppose it is time for said professor and myself to meet."

The man with the accent and rather sharp jaw line looked to the group of men holding artillery behind them," _Retour à votre patrouille**!"_

A chatter ran throughout the crowd behind them before the men slowly turned and exited the alley to "return to their patrolling". This left the troupe in front of Rebecca and Sherlock alone. Rebecca noticed the troupe in front of them to be significantly smaller, but this was hardly vital since they still outnumbered the two of them.

"_Rechercher les fois de plus. Puis les mettre à l'arrière de la marionette**," _The man ordered the troupe behind him before leaving to speak with the other officials behind him. Two other rather large men stepped forward as the rest of the group turned away to behind speaking amongst themselves. A tall and rather gruff man appeared in front of Rebecca before pushing her against the cold, hard wall of the alley and spreading her arms out.

The other men were clearly distracted as they began to chatter amongst themselves and even leave the alley, partially.

As she leaned against the wall, feeling the man's hands run up and down her, searching rather gruffly for any additional weapons. Her mind was buzzing with all sorts of theories as to how they were to untangle themselves from this fiasco.

"What is zhis?" She heard the man searching Sherlock ask, but soon after that she heard a slight clatter, which spooked both herself and the male searching her. Many thoughts were racing through her mind as she tried to think of a logical explanation to this but her thought process was interrupted as she watched the fellow searching her be taken to the ground by none other than her cousin. Observing the both of them quickly, she noticed what appeared to be a thin dart-like contraption sticking from both of their necks. Taking a closer glance, she saw what appeared to be one of her own...threading needles sticking from his neck. Time did not allow her to ask any further questions.

Her eyes looked up to see Sherlock, who was also free and was looking down at the man with the same shock that she was wearing on her face.

"What did you-" She started to ask, but when the men behind them began yelling and chasing after them again. The detective simply grabbed his cousin's arm and began running once more. "My needles are not to be used for such-"

A gun shot interrupted her sentence, causing them both to duck down.

"Acts of violence!" She hollered at him, after they were on their feet once more. "How did you even manage to do such a-"

"Pardon me, but I do believe your needles, just saved the both of us from a very precarious situation," He said back to her, very primly as they quickly reached the end of the street, several uses of French swear words being thrown about from the men behind them.

**A/N: I wanted to add so much more to this chapter, but I feel as though the next chapter will be very long. I will update as soon as I can, but I am just so stinking busy right now that it's not even funny. Thank you for reading and I will try to update ASAP!**

Translations:

_dépêchez-vous (hurry up)_

_Il n'y a rien à craindre (There's nothing to worry about)_

_Retour à votre participle (Return to your patrol)_

_Rechercher les fois de plus. Puis les mettre à l'arrière de la marionette (search them once more then put them in the back of the vehicle)_


	13. Simply Gone

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes.**

Chapter Thirteen: Simply Gone.

_Meanwhile_

On the ground of the French restaurant, Sebastian Moran was slowly awakening from the slumber which had been unexpectedly induced on him. His eyes fluttered open and he swore under his breath as the events came spilling back into his mind. Once more, he had allowed the sly seamstress to outsmart him. For all of the years that they had known one another, it always seemed to be he that was left in the dust as she squirmed her way out of the difficult situations.

Slowly, he pulled himself up from the floor and found a pounding headache to be pressing against his forehead. Habitually, he felt his coat pocket to find his gun missing. Once more, he swore under his breath before pounding his fist onto the table, the silverware rattling as his curled up fist crashed down.

As his eyes trailed up the table, he saw that a figure in black cloaks was sitting on the opposite side of the table, where Rebecca had been just moments before. Mentally, he groaned as he immediately recognized the face of the professor, his colleague, James Moriarty, sitting casually as he examined Moran.

"Please, take a seat," The man said curtly, pursing his lips slightly.

Moran had rather hoped that he could tell Moriarty of what had happened rather than have him find out first.

The professor clicked his tongue, as if in thought as he tapped his finger methodically on the table top while Moran shifted uncomfortably.

"As we can both see, your plan did not go as hoped," The bearded man said, stating the obvious as he casually looked about the dinner room, which was still empty.

Moran swallowed hard," It seems as though the seamstress is…much more…shrewd than I remember her being."

Of course, this was a lie for he had remembered her exactly as she had been, but he was entering into impromptu mode in order to prevent himself from receiving a scolding.

"Really?" Moriarty answered incredulously. "Because this seems to be precisely the type of thing that she would do. From what I have heard that is. Look at what she did, a simply kick of the table, at just the right angle, enough of a distraction for you to look away for roughly three seconds as she carefully swapped your wine glasses. Of course, I'm sure she had you latched into a riveting conversation before this so that you would be under the impression that she would go…willingly."

Moran looked down, as a child would after being caught. He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to think of some sort of answer to this, but the truth was in the reality of the situation-she had gotten away.

Moriarty had bitten down hard on his lip as he slammed his open palm down onto the table.

"I gave you a simple task!" He said, his tone very frenzied.

"You know who she is related to. You know how sly that man-"

"This is not about him!" The professor retorted, leaning back in his seat, his tone of voice evening out some as he said. "This is about Miss Rebecca Dubois."

The air immediately silenced as the military man knew he could not argue his point any further. He simply crossed his arms, looking at the ceiling, as if searching for some sort of reply. The waiter walked in several moments later before filling the both of their glasses with a sumptuous, red wine. Both men slowly grabbed their glasses and toasted before the professor took a long swig of his drink while Moran simply put his down.

"Not in the mood for a little _vin**_ tonight?" The professor chuckled, setting his glass down.

Moran was not nearly in the mood for such humor and simply smirked slightly before pushing the glass away from him slightly," I've already had my share of wine for the evening. Now, on to a more important topic, would you mind reminding me why it is that we are so reverently tracking this young woman?"

"Are you so early to forget?" Moriarty asked, looking Moran straight in the eye. "Her betrothed was the reason why our deal with the Germans nearly turned into...a very hostile predicament."

"Can we really say that the deal is sealed with Germany now though?" Moran asked, scrutinizing his colleague's face carefully as the man opposite of him took another sip of wine.

As if oblivious to his question, Moriarty spoke in a very, dry, straightforward tone," Adrien Dubois needs to be aware of what he did to our operation. He's a pompous man who thinks, or thought, rather, that he could do whatever he pleased and still get all of the money promised on our deal. Now, granted this would have been fine had he followed our agreement, then the events may have turned out a little less unfortunate for the fellow."

"Pardon me, but remind me what his wife has to do with his sins?" He asked, tentatively, of course.

Moriarty stared at Moran for a long, hard moment before saying softly," I'm afraid that she still holds onto the papers that will seal the agreement with Germany."

"These papers...they are-" Moran tried to ask, but suddenly another man appeared in the doorway, appearing rather frantic and breathing heavily as he leaned against the frame. The suit the man wore was unbuttoned, presumably from the running he had done to reach the restaurant.

"Excuse me, professor," The man huffed, his French accent heavy. "Zhe seamstress and an acquaintance of hers seemed to have...escaped. It iz as though zhey dizappeared."

Moran lifted his eyebrows before clutching his hand into a fist and slamming it down on the table. Moriarty appeared just as livid as he ran his finger over the lid of his glass. An outsider would have found him to be very calm and casually tracing the lip of his glass, but Moran was simply waiting for the moment when his colleague was going to reach for his glass and heave it at the wall, the sound of glass shattering filled the empty room as the red wine spilled down the restaurants wallpaper. Moriarty's eyes were stuck on the ceiling as he sat, clearly infuriated.

"Do you have any idea as to where they have 'disappeared' to?" Moriarty growled, gritting his teeth.

The man in the doorway breathed out heavily," They were gone too quickly...sir."

Moran simply waited for the second explosion of the professor, but there was none for he simply stood up, exhaled and then walked slowly toward the man whom had told this to the both of them the earth-shattering news. Moran watched, still waiting for a second outburst, but the only words that came from his lips were," Come, we are going to Germany."

"Germany?" Moran asked, clearly confused by this sudden change of plans. "Why-"

"We have some clients to speak with..." Moriarty growled before storming past the man in the door.

Moran simply shook his head, not daring to ask anymore questions before following close to Moriarty, en route to Germany.

* * *

><p>On the other side of Paris, in the alley ways and now disguised as two haggard-looking citizens with little wealth to their names, Sherlock and Rebecca were sneaking along the shadows, careful of their movements. Little did they know, that their whereabouts were currently unknown by their pursuers.<p>

"Sherlock, at some time you are going to have to tell me just where you intend on taking me," Rebecca said, her tone of voice droning as she pulled at the ratty coat which she had picked up just the block before. She was just now realizing the heavy stench that came with this garment found on the streets, but Sherlock had insisted on it. He was always rather found of...costumes and such. "Or at least allow me to take this hideous costume off sometime."

Her cousin continued pushing through the dark streets, pulling down on his hat filled with holes and tatters before saying dryly," They are not costumes...they are disguises and they are simply for your own safety."

"They're absolutely ridiculous is what they are," She grumbled back at him before he responded.

Sherlock stopped walking abruptly before shooting her a look," If you are dissatisfied, I would be more than delighted to escort you back to Moriarty and his band of fellows such as the...oh, what was his name...charming fellow-Sebastian Moran."

She narrowed her eyes at him," He's not the issue, Sherlock-"

"Well, he certainly has a poor taste in-" Before the detective could finish his sentence, he threw himself against his cousin, forcing her to the ground as a couple passed by the alley way, innocently strolling the street. "Companions."

"Sherlock!" Rebecca scolded him, pushing him off of her. "I do believe you're a bit too paranoid."

Picking himself up off the ground, smoothing his clothes as he did so," Simply taking some minimal precautions is all."

The seamstress groaned before smoothing out her own dress and following her cousin. Though she was delighted to be away from those who had wished to harm her, she couldn't help but realize that she had simply abandoned her beloved store that had taken so many years of her life and not to mention dollars, to build to a reputable status. Her tears had already been shed, but the reality that she would more than likely never step foot in her store again...was heart breaking.

Nevertheless, she followed her cousin with little conversation. She simply followed in silence, trusting he knew where he was going and what he was doing. From the exterior, it may have appeared that he did not have an inkling of knowledge, but, for some strange reason, she felt secure with him. Deep down, he knew precisely what it was that he wished to accomplish.

Finally, after many minutes of traveling wordlessly, Rebecca finally broke the silence when they came to the Seine River, the road seemed to end and the waters swirled many feet below the both of their feet. From examining her surroundings, she knew that there was only one way that he intended on going. Her brain could only hope that there was some other way.

"Sherlock..." She said warningly, looking down into the cool, shady waters.

He looked at her, as if not seeing what it was that concerned her," Yes?"

Her eyes narrowed as she looked straight at him and nodded toward the water," What is that?"

He blinked several times before saying," Well, _that_...is a river. A flowing body of water…"

It was moments like this in which Rebecca did not miss the company of Sherlock Holmes. Obviously, this was a river, but she wanted a much more profound answer than that. What really tore her up inside was that he knew that she wanted more than just a simple answer. She narrowed her eyes at him once again before nearly growling," Sherlock..."

The English detective was not looking at his cousin, but frantically looking up and down the river, searching for something as he half-heartedly answered," Yes, mum?"

At this moment in time, she shook her head and bit down hard on her lip, waiting for the moment when Sherlock would mentally come back to earth. In the meantime, she pulled the dilapidated jacket from her shoulders and folded it over her arm. It was as though she had literally pulled him from whatever realm he was in mentally.

"What are you doing?" He demanded, looking at her and then the jacket draped over her arm.

"I am not wearing that piece of garbage any longer," She said to him. "Unless, of course you tell me what it is you have planned..."

He was then the one narrowing his eyes at her briefly, before looking over his shoulder and back to her," I suppose that could be-"

Before he could complete his phrase, he looked over his shoulder once more, this time Rebecca caught glimpse of a diminutive vessel tugging through the water toward the two of them. Looking over the edge of where the street ended and the uneasy waters flowed, she could only gulp before she watched him grab her by forearm, pulling her alongside him into the dark waters below.

A short yelp escaped her lips before the plunge came and she felt the chilly waters absorb her, drenching her its wet, choppy waters. Just before, she had been alert enough to hold her breath, but after being held for moments under the surface, when she came to the top, she filled her lungs with air before looking around for Holmes.

"This way, dear Rebecca!" He called, swimming in the opposite direction toward the small vessel breezing toward the both of them.

It wasn't until they had reached the grimy little fishing boat and she was pulled aboard that she realized something that nearly made her heart stop beating. She could hardly observe her surroundings before she reached into her dress and pulled the wet, soggy papers from them. The sacred papers that she had been told to protect were ruined. Adrien's documents were ruined and she could only pray that Moran and Moriarty would never learn of this.

Her eyes, blinking slowly in disbelief, looked up to Sherlock, dripping wet and leaning against the edge of the boat," I assure you...I can explain."

The events of the evening were too much and all she simply did in response was rest her head to the ground, every time she had entangled herself with Sherlock; trouble ensued. Her heart was telling her that once again she had been swindled into one of the detective's cunning plans. She only hoped that he knew precisely what he was doing.

**A/N: A lot of what happened in this chapter is important for later chapters and helps to set up a little bit of where the whole Moriarty aspect of this story is going. Any specific guesses as to why Moriarty wants these papers and why Adrien wised to keep them from him? What about now? How do you think Moriarty is going to react after he hears about the documents? Let me know what you all think ****(: Love you all!**

****Vin=wine**


	14. Back to London

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes.**

Chapter Fourteen: Back to London

"I can explain-" Sherlock tried, but Rebecca simply looked away, biting down hard on her lip as she looked into the dark landscape around them. Rebecca wished to have nothing more to do with him, in fact, Rebecca would have much rather jumped from this small vessel in the first place.

"Don't speak to me," The seamstress said bluntly, pulling herself to her feet and storming passed him.

Still, as persistent as ever, he followed after her.

"Why don't you just wait a moment and allow me to-" He reached for her arm, but as soon as he hand came in contact with her arm, Rebecca viciously shrugged away from him.

"Sherlock, I don't see why I ever trusted you in the first place. Both you and Rebecca know that you never liked Adrien and this just goes to show as to why-"

It was my turn to be interrupted as he raised a finger and shook his head.

"This has nothing to do with that," He said simply, yet pointedly.

Rebecca raised her brow at him and tilted her head," I don't believe you."

"You haven't given me more than half a moment to speak, I wouldn't expect you to," He shot back sourly.

At this moment, Rebecca crossed her arms and pursed her lips at him. If he had anything that he wished to say about this, then now was most certainly the time to do it before Rebecca personally strangled him.

"Those papers needed to be destroyed," He said calmly, grabbing his cousin's arm delicately, guiding her back to a seat on the grimy vessel.

"They needed to be protected," She said back to him, looking at him curiously.

He sighed as he sat the both of them down on the edge, exhaling as he did so. His eyes shot up to the sky as he planned his route of explaining this to her," They were the one thing still linking you to Moriarty. I can't allow him to want to have anything to do with you. It is only for your protection and the well-being of the entire country."

Her brow was furrowed," The whole country?"

"Adrien was in business with some people who Moriarty would not be happy he was in business with," Sherlock said, simply stating the fact.

Rebecca shook her head while peeling a wet strand of hair from her face," You have a bigger plan than simply that."

"I assure you, I do not," He said back, but her eyes bore deep into him as she untied her hair from its knot and wrung it off the side of the boat, allowing all the excess water to spill from it.

"I know that Adrien was in business with Germany about something, if that's what the big secret is about," The seamstress added, wondering if it would help to reveal any further details.

Sherlock smiled before patting his cousin on the knee," Ah, so you did read those papers. Very well done, my dear."

She did not take this nearly as light-heartedly as he had intended," I couldn't read any of it so therefore I have no idea what sort of business."

"You never knew your betrothed knew German?" He asked incredulously, mostly just to annoy her. "Why, did you even know him at all?"

He really had only intended for it to be in jest, but her eyes became solemn as she looked away, still shaking her head out. Sherlock slightly regretted his words, but he would never show his remorse. He simply dropped the smile from his face and watched his cousin as she shook her head.

"Sometimes…," She drew out softly, not making eye contact with him. "I ask myself that question and can't give an answer."

He exhaled deeply, once again," All I am at liberty to say is that Adrien tried to play a role that was not meant for him. He truly did play with powers that were not meant to be played with and in the process managed to make the Professor very infuriated with him. If and when you see Adrien again, I will allow him to explain the details."

Rebecca simply bit down on her lip, shaking her head as she looked up to Sherlock," I don't think I will be seeing him anytime soon."

"Then I suppose you will not be informed, then," He said simply, patting her on the knee once more before saying. "Get a good night's rest though, will you? We'll be in London by tomorrow morning and your good friend Mary will be anxiously awaiting your arrival."

The seamstress was about to casually agree to this, not wishing to fuel another argument, but it was at this moment that she noticed he mentioned someone whom he had presumably never met before. Or at least, not her knowledge. This only meant that he must have done some unnecessary probing. Almost immediately, she stood up from where she was and demanded," How do you know Mary?"

"Mary and I…are….colleagues," He smirked, simply wishing to drive her even more upset.

"Sherlock, tell me," She demanded, placing a hand on her hip.

His face became solemn once again as he looked her straight in the eye," Have a good night's rest."

The detective turned away, leaving a very curious and inquisitive Rebecca Dubois.

* * *

><p>When she awoke the next day aboard the malodorous ship, it should have not been a surprise that she was abandoned by Sherlock. It also should not have been a surprise that she had a nasty crick in her neck that would not come out no matter how much she rubbed her neck. However, when she did awake alone and on the ship that was docked soundly in London, she could only grumble and want to kill that man even more so. The captain was of little help to her; he may have spoken English, but his accent was so deep from living on the sea and presumably overuse of tobacco that she couldn't understand a word of what he was saying.<p>

Frustrated and lost, she stumbled off the ship and decided she would have more luck ambling around the streets looking for someone to give her instructions to Mary's studio. It was at that moment that she tried to decide how to break the news to Mary about everything that had happened. Her wedding was approaching quickly and Rebecca was still debating how she was going to come up with the materials to recreate the look she had begun.

She wouldn't have much time to ponder the thought because as she exited the docks, as if waiting for Rebecca, came Mary, running up to the, still damp seamstress.

"Rebecca!" She cried, running up to her dark-haired friend, examining her and wondering just what had happened. "Your clothes- your dress! What happened?"

Rebecca was at a loss for words, seeing how quickly Mary had found her. This must have been linked to how Sherlock seemed to know Mary. Somehow, he must have schemed this up in some way shape or form. For several seconds Rebecca simply stared at her blond haired friend, in awe of what she was saying.

"It is quite a long story," Rebecca answered, still examining her friend.

"Well, we've quite the ride home," Mary said with a smirk, leading her friend toward the road. " Why don't you explain it to me."

"I will, but I'm still figuring most of it out for myself," She answered, returning her smile before walking with her friend.

Many ideas and thoughts were swirling around Rebecca's head, but one thing was for certain: she had to see her ex-husband again. Moriarty would want to know what happened to his papers and she would have to give him an answer. The only person who could give her the answers was Adrien Dubois.

**A/N: Not the longest chapter, but just a little update for you all. :D**


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